JOHN ROBY.
From a Daguerreotype by Beard.

THE

LEGENDARY AND POETICAL REMAINS

OF

JOHN ROBY,

AUTHOR OF "TRADITIONS OF LANCASHIRE."

WITH

A SKETCH OF HIS LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER.

BY HIS WIDOW.

LONDON:
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.
1854.

PREFACE.

The poetry and tales constituting the main part of the present volume, need no apology or introduction. Most of them were finished for publication by the author.[A]

But in reference to the biographical sketch which precedes them, a few words will not be out of place.

A life so private afforded but few materials. Incidents of early days, tending to illustrate the bent and development of his powers, are derived from memoranda in Mr. Roby's own handwriting, or from well-remembered conversations. The absence of that unconscious self-portraiture, which a man's own letters present, will be found supplied, to some extent, by short reminiscences, kindly furnished by friends. The memoir is not offered as a complete biography. It is simply an outline of a literary life, and of a character; the one as varied in its aspect, as the other was uniform in its tenor. That part of the life which fell under the writer's own observation, has of necessity been dwelt on most at length, and she fears lest too much prominence may at times have been given to what is personal to herself, and the double life be thus too strongly shown. Yet the shadow that brings out the principal object will scarcely be censured. No one can feel so deeply as herself the inadequacy of her talents to the subject. To one qualification alone she may lay claim, without fear of the charge of presumption, "that of the seeing heart," without which it has been truly said, "no true seeing for the head is so much as possible."

The writer will esteem herself happy if, with all the imperfections of detail, she shall, in a measure, have succeeded in her aim. That aim has been to gather up, with a loving reverence, the scattered products of her husband's pen, by which the reader may estimate his powers, and to present a faithful mental portrait of one, with whom the pursuit of literature was no bar to the discharge of ordinary duties, and whose gifts were the Lares and Penates of his own fireside,—one who, as time advanced, learned the secret of self-renunciation and spiritual obedience, and having "left this life for a better," still, lives "in memory here," as a man of genius and a Christian.

E. R. R.

December, 1853.

CONTENTS.

WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE,
FOR LYCIDAS YOUR SORROW IS NOT DEAD,
SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR;
SO SINKS THE DAY-STAR IN THE OCEAN BED,
AND YET ANON REPAIRS HIS DROOPING HEAD,
AND TRICKS HIS BEAMS, AND WITH NEW-SPANGLED ORE
FLAMES IN THE FOREHEAD OF THE MORNING SKY;
SO LYCIDAS SUNK LOW, BUT MOUNTED HIGH,
THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM THAT WALK'D THE WAVES,
WHERE OTHER GROVES, AND OTHER STREAMS ALONG,
WITH NECTAR PURE HIS OOZY LOCKS HE LAVES,
AND HEARS THE UNEXPRESSIVE NUPTIAL SONG,
IN THE BLEST KINGDOMS MEEK OF JOY AND LOVE.
THERE ENTERTAIN HIM ALL THE SAINTS ABOVE,
IN SOLEMN TROOPS AND SWEET SOCIETIES,
THAT SING, AND SINGING IN THEIR GLORY MOVE,
AND WIPE THE TEARS FOR EVER FROM HIS EYES.

MILTON.

SKETCH

OF

THE LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER

OF

JOHN ROBY.

SKETCH,

&c, &c.

When an author's name is chiefly known by a work connected with any particular locality, our natural expectations are gratified in finding that personal or family associations drew his attention to the subject. This was the case with the author of "The Traditions of Lancashire." Born in a neighbourhood where the faint legends of the olden time were yet floating, he himself belonged to the district whose memorials he perpetuated. He was attached to his native county, proud of her wild scenery, of her old historic associations, and of the energetic, well-defined character of her sons. His family name was not unknown in her annals. One of his ancestors, Captain Roby, who was born in an old mansion, long since pulled down, in the township of Roby, near Liverpool, was distinguished by his courage and gallant conduct during the civil wars of the seventeenth century, at the time when the north was the scene of operations.

John Roby was born at Wigan, the 5th of January 1793. From his father, Nehemiah Roby, who was for many years master of the grammar-school at Haigh, he inherited a fine constitution and unbending principles of honour and integrity. From the family of his mother, Mary Aspull, he derived the quick impressible temperament of genius and that love of humour which so conspicuously marks the Lancashire character.

Destitute of home companions of his own age, being by many years the youngest of the family, he often suffered from an oppressive sense of loneliness. One of his strongest characteristics was an intense yearning for sympathy, however concealed in after-life, from the general eye, by the exuberance of his natural spirits. This led him to seek companionship with inanimate things, which he invested with a sympathetic existence. A reflected light proceeding from the surface of water in a butt at the back of the house, which frequently played on the upper wall of the staircase, was one of these friendly objects. Ignorant of the cause, he would watch for its coming, and sit for hours in communion with the strange and beautiful appearance. It was to him a fair and mysterious visitant, who came in pure benevolence to cheer his solitude. Indicative of the dramatic bent of his mind was another of his resources. He was accustomed to cut out little paper figures of men and women, which he would carry to bed and place under his pillow. As soon as the light was withdrawn he delighted himself in conversations with his paper friends, losing his sense of loneliness in their ideal companionship.

Another thing contributed to deepen his unsatisfied longing for sympathy. His father revered the sterner virtues, and sacrificed to them whatever he apprehended might tend to enervate his son's character. In conformity with this theory of training, even the maternal kiss was forbidden. Only once did he remember feeling the soft pressure of his mother's lips on his cheek, though frequently and fervently did he long to feel it again. In after-life, even down to its close, when rejoicing in the sunshine of confiding and playful affection, he would refer with tears in his eyes to the lonely and unfondled years of childhood. For the sake of both, deeply was it to be regretted, that a mother's love of her latest born, one of the strongest of human affections, should be denied its natural expression, repressed as a duty, till it was subdued and its very existence scarcely suspected.

His thirst for knowledge was early and strongly manifested. If his inquiries were neglected or evaded, he would insist on an intelligible reply. Having been once told, not to be so inquisitive, "'Inquisitive' wants to know" was ever after his form of urgent appeal. Characteristic of this disposition was an incident which occurred when he was a child in petticoats. One fine afternoon 'Inquisitive' was seated in a low chair by his mother's side, conning his lesson. He loved not a task from which he gained no idea; the spelling of t-h-e, the, f-o-r, for, was wearisome, and, as an expedient to rid himself of it, he feigned sleep: his father entering the room remarked, "John is asleep: this warm afternoon has made him drowsy." The mother knew the pranks of childhood, and quietly replied, "He is only sleeping dog's sleep." There was a new idea: up started the little head in a moment with the inquiry, "What is dog's sleep, mother?" Even at that early age, when a question suggested itself, he could not rest till he had arrived at a satisfactory answer; often and long would he ponder over some little thing that puzzled him, and on which he could gain no information from others beyond the unsatisfactory reply "Why, so it is."

As he grew up into boyhood surrounded by objects to which tradition had assigned her marvellous stories, they sank silently into his companionless and sensitive spirit. In his immediate vicinity were Haigh Hall, and Mab's Cross, the scenes of Lady Mabel's sufferings and penance—the subject of one of his earliest tales. Almost within sight of the windows through which, with the dreamy gaze of childhood, he first looked on earth and sky, lay the fine range of hills of which Rivington Pike is a spur. Never will be forgotten the pleasure with which, fifty years afterwards, during the last summer of his life, when travelling past that neighbourhood, he pointed out the roof and chimneys of his birthplace, the well-remembered hills as they lay with the beautiful light of the afternoon sun upon them, Hoghton Tower crowning its woody steep, and other spots at once the haunts of early days and the scenes of the legends he afterwards so beautifully re-imbodied.

His various talents were very early called forth. While yet a child he was accustomed, at first occasionally, and then regularly, to take the organ at the Countess of Huntingdon's Chapel, Wigan, during the Sunday service. His ear was exquisitely true, and his voice also excellent; but, used too freely at the period of its change, it never afterwards fully regained its tone.

His first attempt at drawing was made when he was a very little fellow. A lady with whom he was a special favourite—Miss Leigh, sister of the late Sir Robert Holt Leigh—had one day, to his great delight, been showing him some sketches, when, after he had looked at them, she placed the drawing of a cow before him, saying,

"Now cannot you draw that cow?"

"Oh, no! I never did such a thing," was his reply;

"Try," her wise rejoinder.

With some persuasion the volatile child was induced to attempt the task. The pencil was poised—his attention concentrated on the subject—his hand began to follow the eye, and with oft-repeated delight he beheld the form grow rapidly under his touch; so that whether his teacher or himself was the more pleased, it would be difficult to say. This was a precious lesson to him, which he did not forget. It was so firmly rooted, that, in after-life, he never doubted success in anything he thought proper to attempt. Years after, in 1849, when writing to a friend whom he wished to encourage to mental effort, he referred to this time, when the little word "Try" was the "Open Sesame" of the "Arabian Nights" to him.

He cared little for ordinary companions, never so happy as when he could steal away from them, into the company of such of the other sex as were much older than himself, and listen for hours to song and music. He always considered he was more indebted for the formation of his habits and the development of his character and talents, as in the instance above, to woman's discriminating encouragement, than to anything else; and, for weal or for woe, hers was an influence to which he was ever peculiarly sensitive.

The education he received appears to have been rather desultory. The dry and spiritless mode of conveying instruction in those days had neither attractions for his taste, nor power over his mind. As he advanced into youth, and "macadamised his own road," various branches of the natural sciences, history, antiquities, and the fine arts, nearly absorbed his attention. A course of mathematical study would probably have been the best discipline for him at this time, as a balance to the spontaneous development of his imagination. He afterwards pursued it with great enjoyment, though to no considerable extent; and, late in life, he proposed a resumption of the study to the companion of his pursuits—one of the many plans so suddenly and so mournfully cut short.

When he entered on life, and the duties of his profession, that of a banker, early left him master of many leisure hours, the use of the pencil was a favourite recreation. His artistic perceptions must have been very early developed. He was acquainted with a gentleman a professed virtuoso, and a collector of those fine old drawings and sketches which are the first rough thoughts of the painter, or the playful offspring of his lighter moments. In an unpublished MS. he thus describes in the third person his own first introduction to the beauties of the old masters:—

"A new faculty seemed dawning upon him. He felt their glorious power exalting, refining, the sense by the wondrous potency of art; rendering the forms and hues seen by the imagination visible to the bodily as to the mental eye; and expressing in a tangible shape what had before existed only in the hidden recesses of the soul. He saw for the first time a few of the random sketches, the first bright thoughts of these great men, struck out like sparks from the glowing embers of fancy. The fire and freedom of such rude scratches were pointed out; and he could see with a painter's eye the beauty of a line, the combination and the arrangement, the first shadowy thoughts of the artist emerging from chaos into form." That he possessed even then, to a considerable extent, the artist's power as well as his perception, may be inferred from an anecdote of those days which forms the conclusion of the passage:—

"The professor of vertu was expatiating one day, to a group of bystanders, on the merits of some little gem of a drawing he had just purchased. He pointed out the beauties with great gusto, fully impressing his auditory with a sense of the profound knowledge and superiority of his own discrimination. The novice leaned over, and, young as he was, enjoyed the dissertation vastly. In a while he ventured to make a remark: the man of art turned round, and with a look of contempt, intended to extinguish the youthful aspirant, said, 'We don't allow you to be a judge, sir.' Abashed, he shrank back; but the wound rankled, and he determined to have lusty revenge. He sketched on paper, with great freedom and carelessness, the subject of an old etching, imitating as nearly as possible the style he had previously seen. By the judicious application of tobacco-juice, soot, bistre, ochre, and a little grease, so as to make the picture a perfect pattern of dirt,—a rent, a puncture, a piecing here and there, to show the care with which it had been preserved,—he succeeded in making, as he thought, a tolerable imitation, and with great glee gallanted off the prize to his preceptor. The connoisseur at once pronounced the few bold strokes, every one of which 'told,' to be those of a master; and his pupil had much difficulty in evading his inquiries, as to where he had met with it, and whether there were any more to be had." His success was complete; but neither love of triumph, nor gratified vanity, tempted him to divulge the secret, and thereby mortify his acquaintance: he was satisfied with the result of the experiment, nor did he ever after repeat it.

His first attempt at composition was called forth by a friend, who put into his hand a copy of a periodical which, at that time, offered prizes for the best essays on prescribed subjects, to be sent in by young persons under a specified age. It was suggested to him, that he should take one of the subjects, and see what he could make of it. He at first hesitated; but, recalling the magic power of the little word "Try," he sat down to the task, and composed an essay:—"To show what obligations parents and children are under to tutors and governesses, and how far it is their duty, from gratitude and interest, to behave towards them with friendship and respect." It was considered worthy of the prize, as appears from a copy of Blair's Class-book,—in the fly-leaves of which the essay is preserved,—bearing in the customary gilt letters the inscription,

"PRESENTED TO MASTER JOHN ROBY, AGED FIFTEEN.
A REWARD OF MERIT."

Now fairly aware of his powers, to the pleasures of the pencil were added those of the pen. As might be expected, Poetry, Essay, Tale, were all tried, read at first to juvenile companions, as extracts he had met with. Why should early authorship, like early love, be a thing we shrink from avowing, even to the nearest of our friends? It is because, when we write truthfully and earnestly, we lay bare our very soul; and the avowal in this, as in the other case, becomes an exposure of one's inner self.

Debating and Philosophical societies ere long attracted him, and he evidently exerted a leading influence on his companions. He took a prominent part in their projects and reunions. "Sucking in knowledge like a sponge," as he afterwards said, he was as ready to impart it. A silver snuff-box,—still prized as a relic of his eighteenth or nineteenth year,—bearing the following inscription,

"THE GIFT OF THE PHILOSOPHIC SOCIETY, WIGAN,
TO THEIR
ESTEEMED LECTURER AND WORTHY MEMBER,
Mr. J. ROBY,"

attests the nature of his early pursuits, and the estimation in which he was then held by his associates.

The local press was another channel for the exercise of his talents; and it appears by a letter from the editor of the "Chester Courant," preserved with other relics of early days, that some of his contributions to the paper, during a short residence in that city, attracted the notice of the London papers, and were copied into their columns,—a fact on which the worthy editor rather prided himself, while he congratulated his unknown correspondent. From a memorandum book in handwriting of an early date, containing "Subjects for Consideration," we transcribe one page to indicate favourite directions of thought:—

"The oxydation of metals, by passing the electric spark through them.

"The faculty which the eye possesses of accommodating its focal distance to objects placed at different distances.

"The sound which proceeds from the shock of the particles of the air, against those of water in motion. Vide Thomson's Ann. Phil. p. 187.

"Fresh-discovered property of the syphon."

He had now found, in part at least, that companionship and sympathy for which he had so earnestly longed, and his spirit gave itself up to delighted converse with its fellows, and to the pursuits of literature and art:

"All the glowing future, one
Wide atmosphere of light."

His preference even from childhood of cultivated female society, while his reverence for woman and his standard of her excellence were equally high, also contributed to keep the tone of his mind pure and his life stainless. The dawn of existence thus brightened into the full morning of youth: and if those who now fondly look back upon him with affection and pride, may bless God for such a youth, it is owing, under His blessing, to the love of art, knowledge, and woman's intelligent society.

Yet his own estimate of his character at that period should not be lost sight of. When referring to this time, in terms of thankfulness for having been kept from outward evil, he ever owned that as yet he was without the guidance of the true Christian principle—love to God; "that 'the light of the glorious Gospel,' which alone is the true 'lamp unto our path,' had not yet shone into his spirit. He lived only to himself; and though, soaring through natural bias to loftier pursuits, thus kept from the grovelling propensities of youth, yet, in a religious point of view, his heart was, equally with that of others, the barren wilderness, destitute of fruit to the glory of Him who created it, and who demands our 'heart, and soul, and strength,' in His service." So judged a mature self-knowledge, on looking back to the first years of manhood. Were introspection always as faithful, might not the same conclusion be oftener reached?

Hitherto the little bark had sped with no cross wind, no disturbing current, no shadow on her sail. Love came: still life's glad waters were unruffled—all sunshine and repose. But the storm soon gathered, and life's first romance was destined to close in gloom. It will be readily supposed, that, with the impassioned temperament of genius, he gave himself up without reserve to the power of a first-love; and, with the adhesiveness which Phrenology so largely assigned to him, the permanence of his attachment promised to equal its intensity. For a time, "the course of true love," did "run smooth;" but at length a coldness he could not account for, but which had for some time pained him, led on his part to remonstrance. It was resented, and the interview ended in mutual displeasure. Riding home,—not in the happiest mood,—his horse stumbled and threw him. For a few days he lay, unable to travel, in a house near the spot where he had been thrown. Humbler and wiser thoughts prevailed; and the first use he made of his recovered power of moving, was to return and seek another interview. Reconciliation followed, and he left happy and reassured. But, the evening after his arrival at home, a short, cold, and haughty epistle, brought him by private hand, forbade his future visits. Stung to the quick by what appeared heartlessness, if not duplicity, he resolved to forget his idol for ever; and looked around for a worthier object in whose affection he might lose his sense of injury and regret. It was not till his faith was plighted to another that he discovered the undated note was written previously to his last visit, shortly after their angry parting, but owing to his absence from home not sooner delivered. Honour forbade any allusion to this circumstance to the object of the second attachment, to whom he considered himself sacredly engaged, but the blow struck home. A severe illness, during which his life was despaired of, supervened; and, though an elastic nature recovered, it still retained traces of this "maddening misery." More than thirty years afterwards he could not refer to these passages of his history without a shudder, and intense, though controlled, feeling. Some peculiarities referable to this source remained through life. Henceforth a discord ran through all the melodies of existence, and ever and anon reproduced itself in the creations of imagination.

Mr. Roby first appeared before the world as a poet. In 1815 he published "Sir Bertram, a poem in six cantos." Elegant and melodious versification, exquisite word-painting, and a marked tendency to the use of the supernatural, are its chief characteristics. Though not published before, there is every reason to believe it was composed some time previously, during the happy season of hopeful, if not formally requited, love. Here are no traces to be found of that one sorrow. It was the pouring forth of song from a poetic spirit, that as yet knew not the power of the minor key. Another poem quickly followed, entitled "Lorenzo, a tale of Redemption." It met with a limited sale: the versification was heavy, unlike anything else he ever wrote, and the subject was unsuited to his powers. The now venerable poet Montgomery, who had just published his own "Greenland," gave the young author the benefit of his judicious criticism, a kindness difficult to perform; but, judging by a letter from him of the date of July, 1817, he knew well how to combine candour and courtesy. The subsequent productions of his disciple proved that his valuable suggestions were not thrown away.

In 1816 Mr. Roby married Ann, the youngest daughter of James and Dorothy Bealey, of Derrikens near Blackburn. Of her many excellencies he ever spoke in the highest terms, and she must have been, from the testimony of all who had the pleasure of knowing her, as well as from that of her husband, one of the best and gentlest of women, the most affectionate and anxious of mothers. They had nine children, three of whom died in their infancy.

"The Duke of Mantua," a tragedy, which appeared in 1823, was Mr. Roby's next publication. It went through three or four editions in a short time, and was pronounced by the critics, "worthy of a place among our best closet plays." It has been long out of print, and is included in the present volume.

In the course of the summer, he made an excursion in Scotland. He visited "the bonnie braes of Yarrow," in company with Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. His account of the day so pleasantly spent, is a good specimen of his early prose style:—

I went with Hogg the other morning on a 'Voyage pittoresque' up the Yarrow. It was a delicious Claude-looking day—the sky filled with a warm hazy brightness. Every cloud stole as softly up the firmament, as if some creature 'of the immaterial air' melting into the blue ether. None of those sudden lights—those breaks through a hard and almost impenetrable pile of clouds—an Apennine or Andes poised in the middle air, dividing the landscape into vast enclosures—masses of shadow, deep, awful, and abrupt—or moving patches, of a wild and unnatural brightness.

"We set out from Selkirk pretty early, intending to reach St. Mary's before noon. We loitered lazily up the stream, imbibing the keen freshness of the morning. The mists were just rolling from the green hills, when, on passing the bridge, we turned to our left, entering upon the beautiful road, leading through the Duke of Buccleugh's grounds, to Altrieve and St. Mary's Loch. The Yarrow and the Ettrick unite about two miles above Selkirk. Following the course of the former, we soon spied the ruins of Newark Castle, the scene of Sir Walter's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' It is a massive square tower, now unroofed, surrounded by an outward wall, and defended by round flanking turrets. During the minority of the present Duke, the castle was dilapidated; the wooden beams, and such stones as could be removed, were employed in building a miserable farm-house in its vicinity.

"I felt wishful to obtain a closer inspection of this fine old specimen of border antiquity; more especially on learning that Mungo Park—born at Foulshiels, a small farm within a stone's throw of the castle—had left his autograph somewhere within its walls. We soon procured admittance, and on climbing the ruined staircase, entered a large roofless apartment on the second story, where, sure enough, we found, without much trouble, the name of our enterprising, but unfortunate, countryman, written, two or three times, in a large clerk-like hand with red chalk. Hogg seemed as well pleased as if he had found a 'poss,' and rummaged his galligaskins for a hideous bit of scrawl, that he had several times brought forth from its dark den, during our journey, when any thing particularly inspiring had urged its momentary liberation. A poem perhaps, another exquisite 'Kilmeny' or 'Mary Lee' in embryo, undergoing its appointed period of incubation. I made no inquiries, but continued undisturbed in the great business of exploration. In a short time I heard him bundling down the steps, to take a morning's gossip with the keeper. It was not long ere I found myself amply repaid for any sense of deprivation I might have endured, by discovering another flourish with the identical red chalk, and evidently by the same hand. It was a stanza—four lines of poetry by Mungo Park!—If thou hast any touch of feeling—any mark of kindred—any spark of rarer sympathy—imagine, if thou canst, my delight,—the fervour, the intensity of my rapture. They fixed indelibly, and almost involuntarily on my memory;—there they now exist, and probably will continue until every faculty, every function, be obliterated.

"The following is a true copy, spelling and all. The orthography of poor Park was not of the purest kind:—

'Within these walls where obscene birds of night
Whistle and shriek alternate round,
Soft music floted once, whilst with delight
The distant shepherd caught the dying sound.'

"I do not think they show marks of quotation. I hope and believe they are original; at least, I am pretty certain they have not before been noticed.

"I soon roused the skulkers: a vigorous hurrah was the first intimation they had of the enemy being so near their camp. Bang went the first door I came to, and there I found my friend and his, cantie over a cup of the best mountain, and deep in the heart of a thrifty controversy about sheep, their ailments and cures. It was 'an awfu downcome; they stared at each other without perfectly understanding the nature of my announcement. On a repetition, 'Eh, Mr. Bogle, but ye're gone clean blate,' was the rejoinder, 'Ha' ye seen a ghaist!' With some difficulty I made them reluctantly comprehend two very important matters, to wit, my meaning, and a request that they would give me their sweet company awhile. But how they did shout, and rub their sleeves at the discovery; we looked as funny at one another as three ambassadors at a congress. It was as good as the development of a state secret. The best of it is, that it will be a little fortune to the keeper, and a dowry to his weans. Henceforth pilgrimages will be made to the shrine, vieing with Loch Katrine and the pass of Aberfoil in the number of its votaries and the ardour of its worshippers.

"We bade good bye to Newark, and awa' up the braes o' Yarrow, shouting and laughing with the wild echoes of the flood, to the great dismay of sundry bare-legged Naiads and goddesses, peeping ever and anon through 'covert green and woodland dell.'

"My companion had to make a call at his tailor's, who inhabits the low house nigh to the Ford.—A very strange personage this, but of an infinite humour, and pomposity of demeanor.

"It was the very man whom Blackwood accused in one of his 'magi,' of regularly buying two copies of that work, and reading both, from beginning to end, imagining them to be diverse and distinct from each other. He was mightily affronted at this insinuation, and duly wrote, and concocted a letter;—such a curiosity as was never before seen, since the world whistled. I recollect being indulged with a sight of it in the 'back-shop.' He utterly disclaimed taking two copies of the magazine, under any such erroneous impression. The true reason was, that wife and bairns had such an 'ettling for the beuk' that he had no comfort on the occasion, and was often obliged to run for it—to creep behind a stone dike or into a hedge bottom, in the hope of getting free from their importunities, and even then he was in no wise safe from interruption,—some kind neighbour or another would scent him out, and be 'aye licken his fingers frae the dish.' Taking two copies set all to rights, and each party enjoyed their meal in peace. He was dreadfully puzzled about the different 'Horæ' scattered through the numbers, and consulted the minister about their reference to certain matters then abroad, but to which he thought no decent respectable publication, like Blackwood, should have alluded.

"We journeyed on to Altrieve, where Hogg has a quiet domicile within sight of St. Mary's banks, and Dryhope tower, where 'the flower of Yarrow lived and died.' It was high dinner hour when we arrived. A hearty welcome—a dish of boiled trout fresh from the Lake, and et ceteras ad lib., gave a gout and a relish to the succeeding conceptions and concoctions, over which Mrs. Hogg presided,—while the exhilarating influence of high animal spirits, and a 'wee drappie' of the elixir of the mountain, threw a vivid hue and a glowing atmosphere around every theme on which we dilated.

"Hogg is a kind-hearted creature, a man of the rarest genius, compounded out of the most heterogeneous elements, as if nature in one of her freaks had determined to evince the omnipotence of her power, over the most untractable, and unpromising materials,—to mould even the stubborn, and unyielding forms over which she broods, into combinations of the most exquisite symmetry, and delicacy of texture.

"I reckon Hogg's achievements on a par with the most wonderful records of human capability extant. A shepherd's boy, as uncouth and ungifted as any of his tribe—apparently without a glimmer, or an idea of the beautiful or sublime, any further than as it might have relation to a dry bed and a comfortable meal—scarcely able to write his name at a very advanced period of growth. Now he blazes forth, a bright intelligence amongst the lights of the age. Really his works deserve to form part and parcel of our national literature, at once a monument to his glory and an inextinguishable record of the operations of that genius, who setteth no bounds to her habitation, nor suffereth control."

The literary leisure of the next six years was occupied in collecting materials for the Traditions of Lancashire, and by the creative power of imagination, weaving them into tales of romantic interest. Mr. Roby received the most courteous assistance from several of the representatives of the noble houses, whose early history he elucidated; particularly from the Earl and late Countess of Crawford and Balcarres, and also from the late Earl of Derby (1853).

The commencement of the year 1827 was marked by one of those home events, which, though nothing to the world, make sad change in the fire-side circle. Mr. Roby's second boy, named after his brother, the late Rev. William Roby, of Manchester, was at this time about three years of age. Possessed of unusual loveliness and remarkable sensibility for so young a child, he had won upon his parents' hearts, and on that of his father to a remarkable degree. The moment he entered the house, he would call for his darling boy, and place him on his knee at the piano, while the little listener, if not interrupted, would remain for hours rapt in delight. He could not be happy while the child was out of his sight. After a very brief illness, this beautiful boy was called away from the world. His father's heart was wrung, long did he mourn him; and he never dared again to love a child with such idolatry. An infant, a few months' old, had before been laid in the family grave, and on the stone covering their remains, Mr. Roby had the following lines engraven:—

"Farewell sweet babes! Upon a mother's breast
Ye pass'd life's hour of fretfulness and pain:
Death bids you on his colder bosom rest,
Herald of bliss;—unutterable gain!
His touch was life!—in robes of triumph drest,
Sinless and spotless now—a Saviour's death
The fountain opened—washed from every stain
Each spirit, ere its last faint quivering breath—
As o'er its eyeballs burst eternal day,
Left its first cherub smile to linger on its clay."

A third infant was laid beside them in 1832, and there now repose his own loved and most precious remains, and to these last, as to those for whom they were originally intended, may the closing lines be applied. The smile last seen on that beloved face is one with which it may well awake on the morning of the resurrection.

Mr. Roby visited the English Lakes that year. A manuscript book of notes and sketches remains, and both pen and pencil attest the quickness and correctness of the observer. On ordinary objects he looked with an eye practised in gaining general information, and on Nature with that of the artist. In looking over the sketches one cannot but remark how very little change years have made in that district. Not only the majestic objects of Nature, the accessories of man's placing also, stood then precisely as they do now. The Druid's Circle near Keswick seems the only exception; the fir trees which then waved their dark branches above the grey stones are gone. Grange, reposing at the foot of Borrowdale, with its beautiful bridge, dark clear stream, and everlasting mountains a close back-ground. The Bowder stone[B], its ladder and cottage, and the sharply-defined perpendicular strata rising above all, are unchanged. The sketches of a quarter of a century ago might be those of last year. The very buildings seem identically the same in every part. Nature stamped them picturesque as they were set down in her sacred recesses, and they have not dared to throw off the spell. A few extracts from the note-book will exemplify the style of observation. The aspect of the district; the manners of its inhabitants; individual peculiarities whatever of men or things; natural productions, and above all, the ever-varying forms of beauty, with which nature in such a region clothes herself,—none of these escaped his observant and admiring eye.

"Kendal, Aug. 21. 1827.

"Dialect. Kendal mode of calling a person up, 'Shoot on him there.' First view of Windermere. Writing on Inn Windows—This perishable and frail tablet more durable than man's existence. Mountains—The same outline, the same aspect has met the eye of man for thousands of years.... On the Lake—View from the north side of Curwen's Island, light and shadow disposed as if according to art—broad lights upon the rich colours. Corn-fields &c. near—summits of hills dark blue, cutting against the sky, angular and sharp. Island follows the universal law—north by west, rugged and mountainous; south, undulating and flat."

Grasmere was at that time the abode of the gifted and excentric Hartley Coleridge. He was standing at Jonathan's door when the tourists drove up. They soon made acquaintance with him, and it was not long ere they were deep in discussion on the subject of Kant's Philosophy, the Rosicrucian System, &c. &c.

"The repose of Grasmere; pleasures of retirement. No pleasure but to those who possess an innate repose and a mind full of susceptibilities for these beautiful impressions. The bold dragoon and his wife, who took a house here about three months since, for seven years,—are now heartily tired of it. Confounding of phrases—to say a man is a genius, great mistake—rather say a man has genius, or rather genius has him. Often disappointed in our approach to 'reputed geniuses.' A clever man not always a man of genius. Idiom and dialect diffused over a man's very form and face, habits, and character. Tone of voice acquired by contact. Strong voices of the females generally in the north. Quite a literary air about Grasmere. Proof sheets lying about the public-house. Hartley Coleridge engaged in writing the article 'Poetry' in the 'Encyclopedia Metropolitana.'" The notice of Grasmere concludes with a then unpublished song by H. Coleridge—"'I have lived, and I have loved,'" with the autograph of the Poet.

"Keswick Lake. Sun-set. Colour of the mountains blue, a band between the fiery sky, and the fiery reflection in the lake. Cloudy morning. Skiddaw still has his night-cap on. Clearing towards seven, determine to mount. Pass Skiddaw's cub, Latrigg. Hills tumbled about in great disorder, compared to a large painted sheet of canvass thrown down horizontally and propped up in different places underneath with pointed sticks of various lengths. Eye soon accustoming itself to the size of objects thereby diminishing their bulk to its own previous conceptions. Every now and then obliged to find an object, of a known size, in order to feel the vast dimensions of these objects of unknown magnitude.... Gaining the summit, an envious cloud sweeping round the hill. Double echoes apparently from grouse shooters. Cloud rapidly approaches, falls between us and the distant prospect like a curtain. Completely enveloped. Sit down wrapped in my cloak under the lee-side of a huge heap of stones, and wait in expectation of the cloud clearing off for nearly an hour. Quietly read 'Otley's Guide,' Geology of the Mountains. Symptoms of a break in the cloud, mist still continues. Guide relates the dangers and perils of ascents and descents in a mist, even to those well acquainted with the path.... During these amusing and exhilarating narratives the mist breaks in partial openings—Wonderful bursts of prospect through the clouds. Solway Frith—the Sea—Wigton, Cockermouth, Bassenthwaite Lake. A vessel on the Solway, by telescope, a brig.

"Hermitage near Derwentwater Lake. Major Pocklington built and endowed it for any person who would live there in entire seclusion, locked up for seven years; after this apprenticeship he might, if he thought proper, have his liberty, and an annuity of 100l. a year. No one has yet been found to fulfil this engagement, and the place built twenty or thirty years ago.

"Borrowdale. Lead mine on very steep hill. Gryphite lies in sops. Old levels worked out. At fault; cannot yet find any; trying near the summit of the hill. Immense productiveness at times. Supposed to have been once in a state of fusion. Evident marks of this. No date of its discovery. Tradition tells us, that a tree being blown down bared the first vein. Used for marking sheep only in all probability at the first. Maps of the county might be printed on pocket-handkerchiefs. Dine at Rossthwaite: another party arrive, folly of not being content with what the house affords....

"Patterdale. Met a young sheep dog.—One leg tied up to prevent his scampering after the sheep too far—dog education; not beat young dogs, it breaks their spirits and spoils them. May this hint apply to the education of two-legged cubs? Beautiful and fertile valleys running up into so many gorges of the mountains.... Musty egg at breakfast. Irishman swearing not a hen in all England that laid fresh eggs.... Kirkstone pass. Savage sublimity of the road. Kirkstone like the gable end of a house peeping above. Saxifraga Nivalis.... High moor between the lakes and Kendal. Grand view of Langdale Pikes twenty miles off, like immense buttresses or towers, supporting a long line of rocks." Of all the beautiful objects in that district none excited Mr. Roby's admiration as those two magnificent rocks. His enthusiasm for them was unbounded.

The first series of the Traditions of Lancashire appeared in 1829, in two volumes, illustrated by plates engraved by Finden, from drawings by Pickering; and wood-cuts by Williams, after designs by Frank Howard. The matter, the embellishments, and the spirited publishers, Messrs Longman and Co., were alike worthy of each other. The reception of the work equalled Mr. Roby's most sanguine expectations; for though the price, demy 8vo., 2l. 2s., royal 8vo., with proofs and etchings, 4l. 4s., made it rather a book for a gentleman's library than for general circulation, a second edition was called for within twelve months. The following note from Sir Francis Palgrave, no incompetent judge, was a gratifying estimate of the work as forming part of our national literature:—

"26, Duke-street, Westminster,
26th October, 1829.

"Sir,

"I am greatly obliged to you for the very interesting volumes which you have had the kindness to send me.

"As compositions, the extreme beauty of your style, and the skill which you have shown in working up the rude materials, must entitle them to the highest rank in the class of works to which they belong.

"Are there any peculiar traditions in or about Cartmel, where, as you probably know, the Britons continued till a comparatively late period? You have made such a valuable addition, not only to English literature, but to English topography by your collection—for these popular traditions form, or ought to form, an important feature in topographical history—that it is to be hoped you will not stop with the present volumes.

"I have the honor to remain,
Sir,
With great respect,
Your obedient and faithful servant,
"Francis Palgrave."

The second series, consisting also of two volumes, uniform with the first, was published in 1831, and met with similar success. Both series were reviewed in the most cordial manner by the leading periodicals of the day; more than once quoted, and characterized by Sir Walter Scott, himself a host, as an elegant work. (See Introduction to the Betrothed.)

When composing, Mr. Roby usually wrote with his family around him; the only restraint he laid upon them, was the prohibition of whispering; from conversation carried on in the ordinary tone he could wholly abstract himself. Seated in a favourite rocking-chair, that common northern luxury, wrapped in a loose study-gown, he wrote for hours with rapidity and pleasure. When invention flagged, and he had to seek an idea, he would fold his arms, and gently rock for a few minutes, then with the air of a person who had found what he sought, return to the page with renewed spirit. Though undisturbed by familiar sounds, which, indeed, he appeared not to perceive, so completely was he absorbed in his ideal world, he yet required all things in order around him before he commenced; objects indiscriminately scattered conveying disturbance through the eye, or even an open door, would so effectually dissipate his thoughts, as to prevent him from writing. His practice was to make himself master of the historical ground-work of the tale, and as far as possible of the manners and customs of the period, and then to commence composition, with Fosbroke's "Encyclopedia of Antiquities" at hand, for accuracy of costume, &c. He always gave the credit of his style, which the Westminster Review termed "a very model of good Saxon," to his native country, the force and energy of whose dialect arises mainly from the prevalence of the Teutonic element. "The thought digs out the word," was a favourite saying, when the exact expression he wanted did not at once occur. To his fine ear for musical sound he was much indebted for the flowing ease of his diction.

Though constituting what is denominated light literature, much careful research was required in the composition of the tales. The aspect of the country in those distant times, the costume and customs of the day, were particulars in which he was scrupulously exact. To secure this truthfulness of detail, long investigations were often needed, even where perhaps they would be little suspected: but always confident that he should succeed at last, he spared no pains in ascertaining the most minute particular, and this very persuasion of success contributed to secure it. By some means or other he invariably commanded the information in due time. Amusing instances of this sometimes occurred. Once, when out of the reach of any work of reference, he was completely at fault for the blazonry of a particular banner, used five hundred years ago. He did not despair, but left the matter in blank, expecting—though he would have been puzzled to tell whence—the wished-for information would be forthcoming. And so it was: casually looking at a review, it so happened that the very thing he wanted was described with more than ordinary minuteness.

His inexhaustible creative power is conspicuous; about two hundred different characters are introduced, no one of whom reminds the reader of another, nor is invention wanting for abundant diversity of incident and adventure, heroic and comic. A gentleman who had been reading the Traditions for the first time, recently remarked, that for invention he scarcely knew any writer Mr. Roby's equal. It is perhaps worthy of notice, that all the characters are creations, not one an idealized portrait.

Another charm is the fine mould in which his heroines are cast. There is a delicacy, a nobility, or high-minded spirit of self-sacrifice about the more prominent, which, while leaving the characters perfectly distinct, sustains throughout a high ideal of woman. Not one bad character figures as a woman; the only approach to such is in tales of witchcraft, where, indeed, the Arch Evil One, rather than his poor victim, is the criminal, as though he would not even bring the idea of evil athwart the favourite vision of his imagination. It may be deemed not adhering to nature, thus to omit an object she, alas! too often presents; but who would blame the artist for the faultless beauty of his creations? The sculptor may display his skill, by representing the contortions of deformity, but not his highest ideal; may show how clever a copyist with the chisel he can be, but not how deeply he has drunk of the inspiration common to all art, how near he has approached to the Fountain of all Beauty. The clearness of his conceptions, and the way in which he threw himself into his characters, are evinced by the dramatic action of even the shortest story. While writing he appeared actually to feel as he would have done, had he been in the situations he described; he felt the perplexity, the sense of danger, and the exultation of escape; for the time he seemed to have a double life, at once sharing the existence of his hero, and sympathizing as a spectator. It was in a tone that he would have used, had she been a living being, that he said of one of his heroines, under very peculiar circumstances of danger[C], "I could not let her perish." His plan was to commence his tale, bring his characters into strange or perilous situations, realize their danger in its full extent, without the slightest idea of how he should extricate them; and then, when the means of escape presented themselves to his imagination, he would work on, delighted with the suggestion, till to his great regret the tale was finished. He knew when to leave off, but it cost him something to do so; it was like parting company with friends.

The short vivid descriptions of scenery scattered throughout, are not often equalled. By a few strokes of the pen, not only a perfect picture of the permanent objects of a locality is placed before the reader's eye, but also the temporary lights and shadows which are thrown on the landscape by the ever-shifting skies; the very feeling of the air does not escape him. Each tale is in fact a cabinet picture, combining history and landscape. In the foreground the traditionary group appears in vivid action; beyond, a far-receding distance, faint in the noon-tide haze, or perchance a wood, with its broad shadows, and burst of sunlight across the next glade. An artist might paint from his descriptions. In the case of one of the most effective engravings, that of Rivington Pike, the drawing was made after the artist had read the tale; the accessories of light and shade, and in the original, of colour also, doubtless owe something of their character to this circumstance.

In his power of depicting the supernatural, Mr. Roby stands pre-eminent; and this not only in little weird touches, that come upon the reader he knows not how, waking a chord within which makes him feel that he has kindred with mysteries more than the eye sees, or the ear hears—but in long-sustained intercourse with beings who people the unseen world, and who seem at certain times, and in certain places, to press upon mortal spirits even to recognition, more, even to hallowed or unhallowed communion. As if there were, time and space concurring, points of juncture for the two worlds. The ease with which he carries his reader along with him, even in spite of the anti-spiritual prejudices of the present age, cannot be better exemplified than in the tale to which reference has just been made, Rivington Pike, which has been said by a German reviewer to be, "the only authentic tale of demoniacal possession the English have." The composition of the story had a powerful effect on the writer himself. He sat up writing longer than usual after the rest of the family had retired. It was midnight when he had finished; and so completely had the scenes he had been describing, taken possession of his own mind, that he dared not stir from his seat, nor did he, till Mrs. Roby, surprised at his remaining down stairs so long after his accustomed time, entered the room; the sight of a familiar face broke the spell, and dissipated the visionary alarm.

The purity of the morality is such as befits a Christian writer, and there is throughout the work a spirit of reverence for things sacred, and of deference to the supreme source of illumination, which is not always to be found in our lighter literature. The reader, charmed and delighted, is carried away from ordinary scenes into a world of romance. Nevertheless in that ideal land he finds the same laws of morality which govern his daily life—the same God looked up to, as the disposer of all things, the Father at once to be loved and obeyed; and he may go back to his duties in common life, without one moral idea having been deranged, or one principle disturbed.

It was at one time Mr. Roby's intention to follow up the "Traditions of Lancashire" with similar illustrations of the early history of the county of York. Subjects were chosen, and a few tales written, which appeared in Blackwood's and Frazer's magazines. One, though not of this series, which was published in Frazer, February 1837, under the title of "The Smuggler's Daughter," was proposed to be dramatised. The parts were cast, Mrs. Yates or Mrs. Keeley was to have taken that of the heroine, and Mr. Buckstone and Mr. O. Smith were to have engaged in others. From the correspondence on the subject, it appears that Mr. Buckstone's attention being demanded by other and rather perplexing affairs, the representation of the "Smuggler's Daughter" was delayed till after the appearance of the story in the Magazine, and at last suffered to fall to the ground.

A book containing sketches of the different localities he intended to illustrate, and memoranda of the traditions attached to them, made during excursions into Yorkshire for this purpose, show the spirit with which he entered on his task, and it is much to be regretted that anything should have been allowed to set it aside. About this time he commenced the study of botany in good earnest. In the same book are notes of a first botanical tour, a few extracts from which may not be uninteresting: they are certainly characteristic. While pursuing the details of science, he was in no danger of falling under the poet's malediction on him,

"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes."

They appear to have been written on the spot, whenever any fresh object presented itself.

"Off to Wetherby.—Resolve to dissipate the mind. Round Hey. Trees, &c., all green, yet how beautifully diversified—cool, warm, half tints—Dr. Johnson, chaise traveller. What is that purple tuft?—Elegant! Vicia cracca.... What is that like a diminutive fir tree? Equisetum, quite a puzzle for a beginner; never mind, learn soon. Clover, I know; but where can it be classed? Honeysuckle too—rushes and all, I suppose, though they would puzzle to find a flower. Clouds, the soul of landscape. What sky most beautiful? Never see a dandelion, but thoughts the most intense that never die.—Where slumbering—where the great reservoir?" No flower had the power to revive early associations like this. His first recollections of it, were as growing in a field near his father's house where he played in infancy. "Yellow flowers among the green wheat: Cherlock. Limestone district.—How delightful any occupation that keeps the mind from preying on itself. Want of employment similar to hunger.—Gastric juice eats the stomach if no food.... What a delicious smell! Butterfly orchis.... Foxglove unknown in some of the southern counties, here how luxuriant! Localities of plants, soil, &c., wants explanation. Poppy, sand, coltsfoot, clay. Furze, Linnæus. Flowers, all made after one model, never change the generic characters in whatever part of the world; proof, where there no other, of an all-wise designer.... Briony, spiral spring. Orchis morio. Something about this tribe mysterious. Children in a field playing, enjoyment. With what different eyes do I now look on nature. What should possess me to learn botany, all my life laughing at it. Arrangement, bump of order I suppose. Distant view of the wolds. York Minster—what a host of recollections!... Iris pseudacorus. Inoculated even the post-boy. The operation, the power of mind over mind, what is it? Country churches. People would write much better books if they would take individualities, instead of generalities, to sermons.... The numbers three and five, how predominant in botany. Geum urbanum.—Lutford. Jackasses on a common—patience personified. Why should Jack be a diminutive, a lowering of any thing. Jack snipe, Osmunda regalis.—Windmills always associate with country quiet; the monotonous turn of the sails. Retreat. Lunatics: mankind all so in one respect or another, but a great difference. Lunatics lose their reasoning powers, and jumble ideas,—take those for real which are only reflection and memory, while those counted sane, with correct ideas, act diametrically opposite to their knowledge.... Gravel-field, famous place for plants. Set out. Roman antiquities—a Roman burying place evidently,—continually digging out broken urns of baked clay, very fragile.... Cats without tails, a breed of them here; supposed originally from the Isle of Man. Style of face in different parts. Query, Is it caught? Lower part of the mouth formed by its owner." The notes continue, but are almost exclusively botanical.

In the spring of 1837, Mr. Roby made a rapid tour on the Continent, the notes and illustrative sketches of which were published in two volumes by Messrs. Longman and Co., under the title of "Seven Weeks in Belgium, Switzerland, Lombardy, Piedmont, Savoy, &c." His quickness, and clearness of observation, and power of placing before the reader's eye, in a few words, the objects which met his own, render the book delightful and refreshing to those whom duty detains at home. Notes were taken on the spot, and but slightly amplified, so that the narrative has all the freshness of a youthful description of a day's pleasure. If the road branches off in two directions, and the driver hardly knows which to take, the reader himself feels puzzled, and thinks with apprehension of the nearness of the sun to the horizon, and the miles yet to be traversed; if the traveller is sailing down the lake listlessly drinking in the beauty around him, the reader, too, feels the calm repose of the still expanse of waters, and the softened grandeur of the panorama of mountains. Even "the dry hard names" of rare plants—music to the botanist—followed as they are here by their more familiar synonyms, enhance the charm of the book: we look up from the sunny surface of the glacier to the crimson flowers of the Azalea procumbens (trailing Azalea) starring the barren rock. Graphic description alternates with personal adventure and amusing anecdote, marked alike by vivacity of style, and the buoyant spirit of the author. Charming as a narrative of continental travel, it at the same time has been said, "as a guide book to the continent," to be "the best that was ever written,"—the sight-seer, the lover of scenery, and the botanist may use it to equal advantage. It shows how much may be secured by a really active and inquisitive mind, in a few weeks, while the full particulars respecting passports, routes, distances, moneys, exchanges, &c., puts the reader in the way of enjoying as much himself, when it falls to his lot to take the same route. The pictures of nature are in Mr. Roby's own effective style. The start from the Custom-house, termed by the "Literary Gazette" "a Calcott picture in a few lines," is an instance. "It was a calm grey morning, the population were hardly astir, the river with its wilderness of masts seemed hardly awake; and the very water having been suffered to rest untroubled for a space, looked dull and drowsy." The impressions made by the first sight of Alpine scenery on a mind like his, are, as it may be expected, vividly told. It was of this part of the work, that a lady, who had been familiar with good English scenery all her life, and did justice to it both by pen and pencil, remarked, "That book taught me to look at mountains."

In 1840 Mr. Roby again visited the Continent by a different route, adhering to his custom of making notes and sketches of what he saw. At the close of the same year his attention was engaged by the preparation of a new edition of the "Traditions of Lancashire," in a less expensive form, so as to bring it within the reach of general readers. It was published in three volumes by Colburn, as the first of a series of Popular Traditions of England.

Mr. Roby's delight was as great in imparting as in imbibing knowledge, and he took a warm interest in all institutions for its diffusion. The principal literary occupation of the next four years appears to have been the preparation and delivery of lectures in connexion with societies of this kind, in which his native county so eminently abounds. His early efforts, while yet residing at Wigan, and the welcome reception they met with, have been before noticed; quite as acceptable were the matured results of reading and research now offered to larger and more mixed audiences. In the early autumn of 1838 he gave a course of ten lectures in the theatre, Rochdale, in aid of the Philosophic and Literary Society of that town, on botany; comprising both classification and physiology, illustrated by large diagrams painted in distemper. They were afterwards delivered at Manchester, accompanied by some beautiful experiments, made with the aid of Dr. Warwick's oxy-hydrogen microscope, kindly superintended by that gentleman, and subsequently at the Collegiate Institution, Liverpool.

The subjects of other lectures were various. A course of four, on Tradition, as connected with, and illustrating history, antiquities, and Romance, were delivered at Rochdale. Drawings executed in a bold style in black and red chalks, many of them thrown off at the time, illustrated either the localities where the various legends had birth, or the costumes, style of building, &c. of the period. One set of lectures which the writer has been so happy as to find fully written out, manifests not only his taste for art, but his knowledge of its principles. They are on painting, embracing light and shade, composition, colour, and perspective; and when delivered, were copiously illustrated, occasionally by pictures of the old masters in his possession. He was never more at home, than when ministering to the instruction or gratification of others. His talents, information, acquisitions of various kinds, whatever he might happen to possess, that could at all contribute to the purpose, were put in requisition; and when the idea he wished to convey, or illustrate, was caught by his audience, or in private by his listening friends, his countenance became radiant with pleasure; the belief that he had been of use in any way to others, was one of his highest gratifications.

Among his MSS. are some lectures on architecture, commencing with the rude huts of barbarous tribes, and then proceeding to the structures, as far as they are known, of the ancient nations. Gothic architecture finds its place in the fifth lecture; but from the abruptness with which it breaks off in the middle of a sentence, it appears that the lectures were not completed. There are also, memoranda and rough diagrams for distinct lectures on baronial architecture.

A friend of Mr. Roby's, who was also for many years a neighbour, has kindly favoured the writer with the following recollections of some of his lectures.

"The cheerful alacrity with which on several occasions Mr. Roby yielded to the solicitations of his fellow-townsmen, by giving gratuitous lectures to assist their Institution, was evidence of his often-expressed wish to raise his less fortunate countrymen in the scale of intellectual and social life. I often came in contact with him in connexion with the Rochdale Literary and Philosophic Society, for which he gave several lectures on Tradition, Botany, and some other subjects. His lectures on the Linnæan system of Botany, and another series on the Physiology of Plants, given before our society, were of the very first character; displaying an amount of research, and a power of analysis, combined with most felicitous modes of illustration, rarely meeting in the same individual. The colored drawings used on these occasions, executed by himself and his son, would have done honour to any artist. Such was the popularity of the two botanical courses, that, by request, they were repeated in Manchester, and some other neighbouring towns. In illustrating the lectures on Tradition, the rapidity with which he could throw off the gable or window of an old manor-house or any object of a similar character, was, to me, perfectly marvellous—a few touches, and the effect was produced."

The most popular of the lectures were those on the peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect. They were delivered to crowded audiences at several literary institutions, connected with different large towns in the county. In a tolerably full abstract, given by the "Preston Pilot," and in the original notes, there is ample proof of the highly interesting character of these lectures. Ethnological inquiries, full of attraction to the lovers of that science, formed the introduction, while, to a Lancashire audience, the charm of the whole must have been irresistible, and have furnished an entertainment second only to "Mathews at Home." The fund of anecdote, the rich racy humour which sparkled through the lecture, the inimitable wit of "Tummus and Meary," and the equally inimitable tones of the voice which then gave it utterance, are still fresh in the recollection of many. Had the lectures been fully written out, they would have made a charming little Christmas book, fascinating alike from the information contained, and the mirth it would provoke. The anecdotes are all indicated in the notes by the principal word or sentence, and go far to prove what the lecturer asserted, that a Lancashire man would at any time equal an Irishman in wit.

These lectures were last delivered at Preston, in March, 1844. Having commenced the series, Mr. Roby, with characteristic determination, persisted in carrying it through, though suffering from a severe attack of influenza, which he kept at bay by force of will. Immediately on his return home his health gave way. Mischief had been going on for years, but the activity of his mind, and that indomitable spirit, which would bear extreme suffering before it complained, even to itself, had prevented his heeding any indications of disease, till it had pervaded the whole system. The disorder baffled medical skill; change of scene was tried in vain: as months rolled on his sufferings increased; and, though still striving to attend to professional duties, he was utterly unfit to cope with care and anxiety of any kind. Physical pain rendered him incapable of deriving pleasure from any of those sources which had heretofore afforded such rich enjoyment. Society, art, intellectual pursuits, became not only insipid but distasteful, and with this suffering a new element mingled, deep mental distress. Holy Writ speaks of such a thing as the heart not being "right in the sight of God," and a fearful consciousness that such was his own case, now became as "the arrow of the Almighty, the poison whereof drinketh up the spirit." An increasingly vivid apprehension of the just claims of the Being who demands of His creatures, the love of "heart and mind, and soul, and strength," a deepening insight into his own nature, augmented the torturing sense of his own deficiency. In a life without reproach, spent in the discharge of duty, and in refined and ennobling pursuits, there was nothing on which self-observation, while it looked at the outward, could detect a stain. Life had hitherto been too busy, time too fully and pleasantly occupied, to afford leisure for self-inspection; but now the ordinary routine of pursuit had been broken, and involuntary retirement induced; the eye was turned within, and the result was a conviction that God had not thus been loved with heart, and soul, and strength; and the spirit which had so long been partially under the power of great principles, now awoke to feel that it must incorporate them with its very life—or die. Little wonder that, on a spirit whose sensibilities were at once quick and strong, and on whom impressions once made were singularly permanent, such discoveries should work agony so intense, or that those who understood not the cause of the distress, should think that reason herself was giving way. Such has often been said of others, who were passing through the same crisis of their mental history, not inaptly termed "the everlasting No!" His mind had too much play to lose its balance. A more stolid mind, or a brain like "the gentle" Cowper's, predisposed to malady, would in all probability have given way, as month after month, year after year, rolled away and brought no relief. It was a suffering no friends could soothe; his mental conformation peculiar,—none seemed to meet its emergencies. Bodily disease no doubt aggravated mental agony, but as

"No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels"

So

"No cure for such, till God who makes them heals."

For a long time the only relief of which his mind was susceptible, arose from his acquaintance with one in some respects similar to his own, one which understood his sufferings perfectly, for it had known the same both in kind and in degree. The moral element in each, which recoiled from the divine requirements, must have taken precisely the same form of action. Beautiful, even from the very contrasts it presented, was the true and faithful friendship that ensued, between minds sympathising in one point of overpowering interest, though in training and pursuits widely dissimilar; and warm was the gratitude with which he ever held in remembrance those unwearied efforts to pour consolation into his tortured spirit.

To trace the mental history for three or four years, from the commencement of the illness, would be too painful, even were the subject not too sacred. Increasing physical disease, wearing trial of other kinds, asked for a spirit vigorous and happy in the Christian's strength, to bear up against them; but instead of that the mind had at the same time woes of its own to sustain. Left to feel as it had never before felt, its own inwrought sinfulness and utter helplessness, it was borne down, crushed, only rising again to suffer anew, and again to sink. If the promises of God shone out as the stars in a cloudy night, it was only a momentary gleam, and dense darkness covered the face of heaven as before. Most touching are some private papers and letters, written during this period. In the former, particularly, intense yearning for the consciousness of a personal share in the Saviour's love, earnest longings to be able with appropriating faith to say "My Father," are expressed with an emphasis, that renders them an embodiment of mental suffering in all its reality and severity. Afterwards, when the time of trial was past, and he could look back on it and trace its effects, he frequently remarked, that he believed no other than the severe discipline he then underwent, could have brought a spirit like his to entire self-renunciation. Cant or religious pretence was alike repugnant to his nature, and to his cultivated taste; but in those days of suffering he gained such insight into himself, as led him, pure as his outward life had been, fully to appropriate the strongest expressions, by which the scriptures indicate the sinfulness of human nature. He then recognised in this period of mental conflict and distress, the direct acting of the Spirit of God, revealing those things which "the natural man knoweth not." What were dimly apprehended before, as little more than objects of intellectual belief—the extent of the moral derangement of his own nature, the mystery of personal connexion with the atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ—had now become matters of cordial faith. Thus, raised by His power into a full participation of those things, only to be understood by such participation, his became a new existence. The secret spring of daily actions was changed. Never living entirely without the fear of God as a controlling principle, he now became sensible of love to Him as an impelling principle, causing him to seek to serve Him to whom he owed so much, and to follow His will in all the pursuits of life.

Having so long tried in vain the various measures prescribed by the best medical advice, both at home, and in different places he visited, Mr. Roby turned as a last resource to the Water Cure. He went to Malvern in the spring of 1847; looking up, as he afterwards said, to those beautiful hills, as he approached them, with the thought "I shall never walk there—I am only coming to die." Encouragement being given him, to expect ultimate recovery, and finding the process of cure would be very slow, he at once broke up his establishment at Rochdale, and fixed his residence for the time at Malvern. His own medical attendant considered him past hope when he left the north; nor was it in the power of medicine to effect a cure. When he commenced the trial of Hydropathy, Dr. Gully pronounced the sheath of every nerve to be in a state of active inflammation. Almost every aliment he took increased the irritation; medicine only added fuel to the flame. He pursued the water treatment vigorously for some months, before he perceived any benefit, and to his own indomitable perseverance in following the prescribed directions he owed, under the blessing of God, his surprising restoration. A remarkably good constitution, unimpaired by excesses of any kind, gave every advantage to remedial measures in combating disease, and in the end his case proved an instance of the perfect success of those measures.

Distinct as was his mental suffering in its true cause from the physical malady, they aggravated each other, and in recovery their mutual action was observable. Faith and Hope by slow degrees gained strength; the spirit insensibly grew calmer, the Son of God was seen walking on the waves, and the tempest was hushed. The burning anxiety within now quenched in the sense of reconciliation with God, "My Father" being at last the delighted cry of the spirit; there was no longer a latent impediment to the complete restoration of health.

The first palpable symptom of general improvement, was the gradual return of his love for botany, and pleasure in the pursuit. This was nurtured by his excellent wife, who, with a delight which can only be imagined by those who have watched the returning health of some beloved one, induced him to make a botanical object for their daily drives. The Flora of the neighbourhood contained many rare plants only known to him, through Sowerby's figures or dried specimens. By degrees, amendment became more decidedly marked, his native flow of spirits began to return, though at first feebly: and she who through those years of suffering—a period almost as painful to the patient's friends as to himself—had nursed him with the tenderest care, and unwearied affection, now realized the sentiment of the poet,

"Sweet when the winter of disease is past,
And the glad spring of health returns at last,
On a loved cheek long bloomless, to behold
Its first faint leaf the trembling rose unfold.
*****
*****
"Oh, doubly blest, who then can trusting view
The buoyant step, the vigour-beaming hue;
And love's fond cares recall'd, with joy divine
Can whisper to his heart,—That work is mine!

"Lines addressed to Mr. Wedgewood by Dr. Thomas Brown, Late Prof. Mor. Phil. in the Univers. of Edinb."

She had her reward—she lived long enough to see the object of her affectionate solicitude restored to health, the powers of mind and body returning in full force, and was then herself prostrated by an illness before which her constitution gave way. She died peacefully and happily, in the faith and hope of the Gospel, just as a new year was opening with all its promise on others. A blow so sudden and unexpected, was bewildering; the companion of years was gone, the bereaved one was alone, and in new scenes. His efforts at cheerfulness in the society of casual acquaintance, compared with the mastery feeling would gain over him, when he entered into the home society of nearer friends, attested the severity of this new trial. But happily for the mourner, he could recur to the calm and peace of those last moments, they seemed to be to him, the most precious of earthly recollections.

He once more turned to his pen, and sought a healthy solace for his lonely hours in mental occupation, first obtaining leave of his physician, who assured him that the wish to write, intimated he might do so with safety. During the ensuing summer and autumn he gave what leisure the imperative claims of "the cure," permitted, to literary occupation of various kinds. But still home was not the same, there was a kind of dislocation in the social life (if the expression may be allowed) he could not write as he was wont to do. He persevered, and as months rolled on regained his usual facility of composition. A tale of considerable length, founded on the characteristics of modern life, occupied him during the winter. Though lacking the romance of the olden time, it was not deficient in stirring incident and spirited dialogue. It appeared in "Hogg's Weekly Instructor," from May to August 1850.

The following lines, composed after he had recommenced writing, are among the few which, bearing a date, allow of insertion in the right place. They are now garnered among life's precious things, having been addressed to a family group of whom the writer of this sketch was one:

"Ye came across my path
In life's dark lonely way,
A gleam upon its dreary track,
A bright but transient ray;
Or like some vivid meteor-light,
Which dazzling, leaves a deeper night!

"Or like an evening gleam
Athwart some stormy sky,
On rocks, woods, waves the radiance breaks
In glory and in joy.
Ere all is wrapt in doubt and gloom,
And darkness falls o'er daylight's tomb.

"Like memories of the past,
When life's young morn was bright;
And all the glowing future, one
Wide atmosphere of light.
Ere gathering clouds the skies o'erspread
And early hope's brief sunshine fled.

"'Twere better ne'er to taste
Of pleasure's thrilling draught,
Than the parch'd, fever'd, thirsty lip
To leave ere it be quaff'd!
'Twere better launch on Lethe's stream,
Than bliss to feel a bygone dream.

"To meet,—and meet no more!
One look and then to sever;
To feel 'tis but a parting glance
And then 'Farewell' for ever!
As from bright tints deep shades we borrow,
Joys past but deepen present sorrow.

"All earthly joy must fade,
All earthly bliss decay,
Life but the sunshine and the shower
Of some brief "April day:"
Till death like night's grim shadow steals,
And all the unknown at once reveals!

"And earthly idols, all
Must perish if too dear;
We ne'er should seek enduring bliss
Could we but find it here.
Our dearest, tenderest ties must break,
Hopes wither oft, and friends forsake.

"And though your presence now
A vision of the past;
And those bright laughing sunny hours
Too joyous were to last;
Yet like the perfume of the flower
More fragrant in the twilight hour,

"So though unseen,—beheld
In memory's milder light,
More tender and more hallow'd seem
Forms too remote for sight.
In memory's softer hues enshrin'd
What cherish'd hopes are left behind!

"And though we meet no more,
Though destined far apart,
The fond remembrance lingers long
That lingers in the heart;
A breath, a touch, the chord may thrill,
And all the past our bosom fill.

"Adieu! whate'er betide
On life's unstable sea,
In darkness or in light the Power
Unseen your solace be.
In joy or woe, whate'er His will,
His hand your guide, your safety still!

"Great Malvern, May 1848."

To test Mr. Roby's power of language in a sportive mood, the first letter and last word in each line of the following acrostic were given him one evening. The order of the rhymes as well as of the initial letters was to remain unchanged. On the following morning he produced the lines completed. The Ivy Rock was a favourite haunt in a ravine on the hills.

"Malvern the birth-place of English Poetry.
The vision of Pierce Plowman from the Ivy Rock."[D]

"The minstrel seer look'd out afar,
His eye was keen, his glance was long;
Eve deck'd her brow with one fair star
In glory oft to hear his song.
Visions of after-years bursting to life,
Yon wide plain swept in shadows huge and dim
Records of woe, and dread, and coming strife!
On that lone rock, while mute his evening hymn
Calm silence sate;—and through the live-long night
Kindled his rapt eye in prophetic light.

"Malvern, March 21, 1849."

In the summer of 1849, Mr. Roby again married. The loved, and almost idolized head of a happy home, he appeared, as he had never before to those who only knew him in his bereaved life, breathing an atmosphere of happiness, and diffusing it around him, till even the sorrowful grew bright with smiles, and

"Souls by nature pitch'd too high,
By suffering plunged too low,"

were lifted up again into the untroubled joy of childhood. It was impossible the traveller should retain his mantle of grief with such fervid sunshine around him. The enthusiasm of his nature gathered new force from the buoyancy of recovered health, and found its own element in the exquisite woodland scenery lying among the recesses of the Cotswold hills. To those who know these woods, or have once seen them in the tender luxuriance of very early summer, this term is not too strong. The rich botanical treasures they presented, were many of them new to him. The writer cannot forget the intense pleasure with which he discovered among the last year's beech leaves, and held up to view, the beautiful Epipactis grandiflora (white helleborine), which he had only once before seen, his companion, never. Nor the delight with which on another occasion he hailed the long-sought Listera nidus avis (birds-nest ophrys), now found for the first time in its native habitat. Nor did he lose the general impression of nature in scientific details. The beautiful effects of light and shadow, the peculiar blue air tint of the beech woods, every thing that went to form the perfect whole, seemed individually to fill his spirit with exquisite pleasure. And as, in that evening's wandering through the Cranham woods, with friends whose spirits were kindred—looking down the hanging wood, through a lengthening vista, the evening mist was seen creeping on, its hues changing gradually from soft rose-colour to deep purple, the novel and almost unearthly beauty of the scene was such, that all caught his rapture, and felt that never before had any thing so vividly imaged the paradise of the spirit-world. It might have been the painter's conception of Bunyan's land of Beulah.

The early autumn of the year was spent among the Cumberland mountains. Furnished with a botanical tin, pressing-book, and sketch-book—the provision for the day slung at the saddle-bow, some delightful excursions of about five-and-twenty miles a day were made. Nothing could be more congenial with his buoyant, independent spirit, than the freedom of these mountain rambles—professional guides dispensed with, he always squire of dames, and horses too. Starting early in the morning, dining one day on the mountain's brow, the next in the recesses of Borrowdale, amid the haunts of the rarer ferns, or under the shadow of Honister Crag, in the silence of the mountain solitudes; and then with the declining sun, treasure-laden, wending our homeward way as the evening shadows crept on, until,

"Every leaf was lost
In the dark hedges,"

and the road lengthened itself out as if interminably, till at last the lights twinkled cheeringly as Keswick came in sight.

While thus with youth renewed—for certainly Hydropathy in Mr. Roby's case seemed to effect more than the mere removal of disease—life became one long holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.

"Like as a star,
That maketh not haste
And taketh not rest,"

he

"Was ever fulfilling
His God-given hest."

With no claims of a secular profession upon him, and with a spirit chastened and hallowed by suffering, he devoted his energies to literature principally, but at the same time he was prompt to use his powers in any way for the good of his fellow-men. Impressed more deeply than ever with the conviction that in the faith, and practice of Christianity alone, lie the true happiness and virtue of our race; and that in the exercise of his talents, man's only adequate aim is to be found in the service of God, he sought by a more constant infusion of Christian principles, in the productions of his pen, to give a corresponding tone to the minds of his readers; thus working

"As ever in his great Task-master's eye."

Bearing in mind a truth burnt in by affliction, how entirely he owed life and immortality to a Saviour's love, he "loved much" in return, and found in that love, a motive for unsparing labour. During his stay at Keswick, he was placed in circumstances which called upon him to conduct the worship of a few poor people from Sabbath to Sabbath. That self-distrust which so eminently characterised him before God, was immediately roused. The pleasure he had known in swaying large audiences, in striking out from listening countenances the sympathetic flash, recurred to his mind, and he feared, lest in holy things self-seeking should intrude; "I am so afraid of running before I am sent," was the remark made in confidence, where each feeling of the soul was uttered as it rose. But the call was clear and distinct, the voice of "the Master" was heard and obeyed. Sad and strange would it have been if the tongue so eloquent for the gratification of his fellow-men, had been silent when their highest welfare was to be promoted—if that voice raised at man's request for his passing pleasure, had been dumb for God. And doubtless the light of the spirit-world, which even when we only catch it dimly reflected from the mantles of the ascending ones, resolves into

"The baseless fabric of a vision,"

the objects of earthly ambition, has now confirmed the judgment passed by the faithful spirit, whose simple aim while here, was to "do the will" of his Father in heaven.

The Religious Tract Society's Monthly Messenger, for September of that year, No 63, was from his pen. It had an extensive circulation, and a slight fact relative to it, that has recently come to light, is doubly interesting when it is borne in mind, how intensely the writer of the Tract had suffered, and how deep in consequence was his sympathy with all mental distress. A poor woman in the south of England was so weighed down with family troubles, that she came one day to the resolution of ending them that night, by throwing herself into a river which ran hard by her dwelling. Before evening, a gentleman who was not aware of the state of her affairs, put into her hands a copy of the tract referred to. The inquiry with which it was headed, "Are you fit to die?" arrested her attention. She felt she was not fit to die, and her resolution was shaken—she deferred, at least for that night, fulfilling her intention. The conviction of her unfitness for another world deepened; she was led to seek forgiveness and renewal of spirit—she found the way of peace, and the last thing heard of her, was that her worldly circumstances also were prospering. It may be worth observing, that probably the tract had the more point, entered more into the heart of the reader, from the fact of its having been written with an individual strongly before the author's mind. A young woman, whose life was rapidly going in confirmed consumption, while she was utterly unaware of her danger, had excited his deepest interest. Merry, buoyant, well disposed towards every one and every thing, except the subject of religion; her dislike or fixed aversion to which went beyond all bounds. The tract was written, but before it was published he had lost all traces of her.

Most conspicuous during this journey was his untiring industry combined with the variety of his pursuits, no one of which seemed to interfere with another. The industrious botanist, and equally industrious artist, yet found leisure for careful reading, and the use of the pen. Every moment had its occupation; the rainy days were devoted to literary work or the finishing of sketches, broken by a quiet game of chess. While at Bowness Mr. Roby enjoyed one high gratification, a few details of which, though given in a private letter, may be inserted without apology, as the subject is of general interest.

"Saturday, Sept. 30th.

"We have seen Wordsworth to-day. As we accompanied friends of my husband's (the Rev. J. H. and Mrs. Addison, of Birthwaite Abbey) who happened to owe Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth a morning visit, we did not feel intruders. As usual the day was brilliant, we had a delightful row up the lake, the trees on the islands had the rich scarlet and russet tints of autumn, while those on the shore still retained their soft green, making the edges of the lake perfectly verdant. A flight of snow that fell yesterday covered the tops of the mountains which came out in the full sunshine, pure white against the brightest of blue skies. Past the lake, we rowed up the Rotha as far as it is practicable, and there leaving the boats,—cloaks as well—moored to the margin of the stream, we took a beautiful path, through private grounds, on the left of the river, passing Fox How, from whence I bring you an ivy relic, to Rydal Mount. Mr. Wordsworth, (as of course he is here,) was just sitting down to dinner; he came out and begged us to stay in the drawing-room, or in the grounds if we preferred it, till dinner was over. We chose to stroll about, which gave time for a sketch. After a short time, Mr. Wordsworth came and took us into the drawing-room to see Mrs. W. He was not so tall as I had expected, probably the effect of years; his voice somewhat indistinct, gave indications of old age, not so his ideas or expressions. The lower part of his face is deeply furrowed; but when sitting with his back to the light, animated in conversation, every thing is lost in its glowing expression, except his noble expanse of forehead. He chatted away on literary matters with my husband, evidently with hearty pleasure. They talked of a distinguished living writer; of his style, Mr. Wordsworth remarked, that every sentence seemed finished by itself, which was never the case with our best writers—that reviewing had an injurious effect on the style of a literary man, the reviewer has ever to be saying something that will tell, every sentence must be striking.

"Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced he does not know when he lies.'

"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophic cast of his poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love all he has written, the better for this visit."

Returning homewards, Mr. Roby made several visits among his family and friends. Little was it thought when one gratification and another were deferred owing to the lateness of the season till the next visit, that this was the last. The cordiality and pleasure with which he was welcomed, left a delightful recollection of Lancashire and Yorkshire hospitality. The country had not yet lost all its beauty, the rich Autumn tints of October were still lingering on the Bolton Woods: the Wharfe gave forth his peculiar music as he rushed along his rocky bed in the open meadow, or dashed madly over the fearful Strid, till even those accustomed to gaze drew back from the fascination. One day was devoted to York, the metropolis of his native North. His familiarity with the remains of antiquity so pre-eminently abounding in that city, and his enthusiasm equal to his knowledge, rendered him one of the best of Ciceroni. Ever vivid will be the impressions of that day; the grandeur of the Minster, as the South Front, with its beautiful marygold window comes suddenly into view at the end of the old narrow street; the solemnity which seemed to pervade the very atmosphere within; the seven sisters memorialized in those unique chaste lights which bear their name—and never was the light of Heaven intercepted by aught so soft, so subdued, so meet for a Temple of the Most High, with no distraction from higher thought in its beauty—and the incomparable west windows, where the tracery is so light, and the colouring so gorgeous, that it seems as if the stone work were melting into gems. And how was all that glory heightened as it was reflected back from his spirit, the true home of the beauty which the material can only symbolize.

The Red Tower, the scene of one of his published tales; the site of the Roman Prætorium, the scene of another; the unrivalled Museum gardens, with their Roman and Gothic remains, the Multangular Tower and St. Mary's Abbey, the city walls, &c., &c., all that could be seen in one day, by the help of good walking, and unflagging spirits, contributed to our enjoyment. What could not be brought in, was left for future years, so fondly reckoned on, when a stay of weeks or months in the city was to allow all its recesses to be explored, and the spirit of the place to be thoroughly imbibed. Yet beyond all comparison with the other pleasures of the day, great as they were, was the enjoyment in a manner created by his intense delight in the present, and in the plans for the future;—yet of that future "if the Master will," was ever on his lips. The hour that came "as a thief in the night," found him watching.

By Christmas, Mr. Roby had settled down at Malvern, and commenced his winter's work. His habit was to devote the first hour or half hour after breakfast, to religious reading, selecting such works as bore on personal or devotional, rather than on theoretic or polemical subjects. Among the last he read, were some new favorites:—Hodge's "Way of Life," and his "Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans;" Alleine's "Heaven Opened," and Sheppard's "Devotional Thoughts." "Milner's Sermons," which had long held the highest place in his estimation, were frequently in hand. The rest of the forenoon was given to literary occupation, as were the evenings when not spent in society. The only interruption to this quiet course of life, was the delivery of his Lectures on Botany; (which had been given two months previously at Northampton,) before the Worcestershire Natural History Society, in January, 1850. This would scarcely be worthy of mention, were it not for a circumstance which arose out of the engagement. While arranging the diagrams preparatory to the delivery of the last lecture, Mr. Roby incautiously stepped too near the back of the platform, which was protected only by a curtain, his left foot slipped, and the right leg was bent back from the knee on which the whole weight of the body was consequently thrown. He had, however, the self-command to go through the lecture without in the least betraying what he suffered, except by the lameness involuntarily shown when he had occasion to move in order to point out the different illustrations; but the agony he endured was intense, and he reached home sick and faint from its long continuance. His power of bearing pain often excited surprise and admiration in those who witnessed it, so complete in his case was the "power of the soul over the body." It was mental, not bodily, anguish that he dreaded. Mr. Roby never quite recovered from the effects of this accident, though, contrary to the expectation of those who were acquainted with the extent of the injury, by the time he left Malvern in June, they were not perceptible in his walk. The muscles, however, had not fully regained their play, the act of kneeling was difficult and painful; mounting gaps and fences in his botanical rambles still more so; he was ever fearful of a stray stone, feeling that a trifle might occasion a fall: and this, it is apprehended, must have increased his peril on the awful morning of the 18th of June.

In spite of pain, he worked hard during the winter and spring. He finished a series of papers, containing a popular introduction to Botany; wrote two reviews, one for the Literary Gazette on Dr. Addison's recent work on Consumption; the other, for Hogg's Weekly Instructor, on a work which had just appeared by the author of "Dr. Hookwell," entitled "Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and Death." But his principal occupation was the composition of a series of tales, intended to illustrate the influence of Christianity in successive periods. At this he laboured incessantly. The consecration of his talents in any way their nature admitted to the service of Him whom with George Herbert he delighted to call "My Master," was the mainspring of his untiring energy. And when only once the voice of affection suggested that he was working too hard, he replied, as though with a presentiment of the sudden coming on of night to him, to the effect that he had not long to work, adding, "I must not sit still and see the stream run by." He prepared six of the tales (deferring one for the fourth century till he had received a copy of a work which a friend had promised on the Druidical Worship), thus bringing the series down to the close of the seventh century, when superstitious rites and observances began to overspread Christendom. At the end of the closing tale he glances at the gathering darkness, and thus concludes with the last words he ever wrote for the press:—"In our next we shall trace some of those mysterious dispensations,—inscrutable to us, but doubtless among the 'all things' which work together for good, and 'for the furtherance of his gospel.'" It is not surprising that these words, little noticed when first listened to, on the completion of the story, should, when seen again a few weeks after the sad catastrophe, seem like words of comfort which affection had unconsciously traced against the day of need. Little more was accomplished besides sketching out future occupation for the pen in old and new directions. An instance of the latter now vividly recurs to mind: seeing Tieck's Phantasien one morning on a friend's table, he borrowed it, to ascertain if a translation of the tales would suit a purpose he had in view, and to try how two minds could work together. The experiment was perfectly successful. Very slightly acquainted with the language himself, the tale was read off to him in what English, or sometimes half Germanized English, was at command: the rough-hewn thought was instantly apprehended in all its beauty and meaning by the listener, and given back, in his own polished style, rather "a transfusion than translation." The pleasure was unexpectedly cut short in the midst of a tale, after the second or third evening, and it was with a feeling, even then recognised as akin to foreboding, that the unfinished volume was returned to the friend whose sudden departure from Malvern thus put an end to the delightful occupation.

As the spring advanced, and the effects of the accident were so much diminished as to allow of the free exercise of walking, Mr. Roby renewed his botanical rambles, generally in the society of friends; and very pleasant were these little parties that wound over the hill-top or through the woody lanes and green meadows of Herefordshire, in search of plants to supply his own and his friends' desiderata, or those of the London Botanical Society, of which he was a member. And, quick as was his eye for rare plants, it caught even more quickly those beautiful effects on the landscape which the changeful skies of spring so often produce, making a perfect picture of an old farm-stead a broken foreground, contrasting with the soft retiring distance or the gently swelling slopes, where beneath the trees scarcely yet in leaf the wind flowers bowed as the breeze passed over them.

Perhaps the crowning botanical pleasure of the season was his lighting upon the beautiful Pinguicula vulgaris (common Butterwort) in a spongy place on the hill. He seemed the very personification of happiness, as he hastened home, with buoyant step and sparkling eye, to one whose desire to see, equalled his own to show, this pride of our bogs. Often in the preceding autumn at the Lakes had the pale green star-like tuft of leaves called forth eloquent praises of its beauty, and corresponding regrets that the time of its flowering was over for the season. The Lancashire Asphodel was the one other flower which he most regretted not being able to show, as its withered spikes indicated again and again where it had bloomed.

Spring was deepening into summer, when Mr. Roby made arrangements for a journey into Scotland. Furnished, through the kindness of a friend, with introductions to the best society in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, with the prospect of the meeting of the British Association, and the anticipation of renewing mountain rambles, he looked forward to the summer with raised expectations.

In approaching the last few hours the writer feels the alternative lies between making the slightest possible reference to them, or casting herself on the reader's sympathy and indulgence, and using details which were written three years since, with near friends, rather than the public, before her mind. Thrown suddenly into circumstances where the sway of grief was broken by constantly recurring necessity for thought and action, the mind was excited and over-strained to incessant exertion rather than stunned, and under the prolonged excitement, it could go again over scenes which it is now too much a coward to encounter. She, therefore, hopes there is no error in adopting the course now pursued, and embodying the private MS. in the general narrative.

We left Malvern for Egremont June 7th. The ten days passed there were occupied with the interests of the two boys whom their father was anxious to see set out in life. When he came in tired with a long morning spent in Liverpool, after a few moments' rest, he would turn to a sketch that had been in progress during his absence, and, fatigue all vanishing, would call for pencil and colours, take his seat at the window, and go on with the drawing. It was a great favourite of his. Of all the pleasures with which life was replete, none delighted him more than this, both working on the same picture, without betraying by any want of unity in the design or harmony in the colouring, that two minds had been engaged. That drawing alas! which he fondly called "the best yet," lies in the ill-fated wreck.

Pleasant, and yet painful, are the memoirs of evening rambles along the beach watching the vessels as they came and went. One elegant yacht, which his artist eye detected among the numerous craft, is well remembered: he fixed her form in his mind, and destined her for "the drawing"—one of the many unfulfilled purposes.

The last sabbath came, and it was a day of peace. We worshipped God together; that hymn of Dr. Watts', so great a favourite of his from its touching contrasts,—

"Give me the wings of Faith to rise," &c.

opened the last service. As we walked home in the evening we felt mentally invigorated: he seemed more than ever penetrated with a sense of consecration to the service of God, and we communed of how, in our coming sojourn amid new scenes, He might best be served. "He will make it plain, He will point out our work for us," was my beloved husband's closing remark.

At three o'clock p.m. on Monday 17th June we embarked on board the steamer Orion for Scotland, hoping to reach Glasgow by ten, and Edinburgh by one o'clock the next day. Nothing could be calmer than the sea, and we walked for hours on the deck, watching any vessel that came in sight, and catching at intervals distant glimpses of the coast. Our favourite spot was a narrow ledge at the stern immediately behind the wheel. It just gave us footing, and enabled us to look over and watch the track left by the vessel as she cut rapidly through the waves. The white foam, the various shades of pale green, darkening as we seemed to look down into the depths of the ocean, recalled descriptions of the glaciers, and the correctness of the supposed resemblance my husband confirmed from his own recollections.

Evening wore on—we took our last meal together on deck. The Isle of Man came in sight; a sketch was taken for his approbation; and the bright smile that rewarded it is sunshine even now. All recollections of him are happy: the animation and hope with which he repeatedly expressed his belief that his daughter's health, which was not firm, would be completely established by the voyage; the quiet satisfaction of his manner as we sat enjoying the present, sometimes glancing forward to the morrow, all bespoke happiness. Indeed, all the characteristics of a happy life seemed to meet in those few hours. There was the earnestness and the tenderness of affection: there was, too, its playfulness. There was the thought of still holier things: strong was the wish he expressed that we could have been at the lowly meeting for prayer, which was announced the night before for that evening. There was the love and admiration of nature, as the glories of sunset deepened behind the Manx mountains, and from his post of observation he again and again, in his own earnest and animated manner, called me to his side.

Chess—that recreation which seemed ever to have the effect on his mind which exercise out of doors has on the jaded frame—was then resorted to; and having found an antagonist, he went down into the saloon for a game. As we were passing the light-house at the northern extremity of the Isle of Man, which he had expressed a great wish to see, I called him up. After watching it for a minute he went down again, remarking the game would soon be finished.

In order that neither lady should be left alone, particularly as one was in delicate health, it was arranged that he should take a berth in the gentlemen's cabin, and his daughter and I have a small cabin to ourselves, our cabin and his being as near as possible.

The last lady who remained above besides myself was the niece of Dr. Burns. We had very agreeable conversation. She had taken the trip many times, and I anticipated the pleasure my husband would have, when we met at the breakfast-table in the morning, in making so pleasant and intelligent an acquaintance.

When we parted for the night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, I went down into the saloon to make a few arrangements for the morning, and, half afraid lest a sudden diversion of his ideas should lose my husband the honour of victory, was just beginning some little apology for the interruption, when he looked up with a smile, that said, "you are no interruption," and replied "I am coming directly." I returned on deck only for a short time, when, thinking it better to retire, and finding beds were making up in the saloon for the night, I called the steward and committed his dressing case to his keeping. Oh, that I had waited! but had I, I should have lost that blessed promise of speedy re-union as the last words I ever heard from him.

My husband had more than once said to me, "Do not undress," and to that, under the providence of God, I believe Lilla and I owed our safety. I fell asleep about twelve o'clock. When the shock came, and the working of the engines, which even in one's sleep was heard, suddenly ceased, we were instantly aroused; and, looking at my watch to see the hour, in order to have some known fact by which to collect oneself, I found it was a quarter past one a.m. I jumped down from the berth, and, after hastily swallowing a little brandy and water that happened to be in the cabin, to check the sudden sick feeling of fright, put on bonnet and cloak, and went on deck to learn what was the matter, first calling at my husband's cabin door to see if he were there. The gentlemen assured me he was up and gone, and knowing, as I did, his intention of not undressing, and his quick habit of movement, I was satisfied that I should find him on deck. He was not there, at least not on the after-deck, where we had been together. All hands had evidently rushed to the fore-part of the vessel, whence the alarm came, and doubtless he had gone there at once, to ascertain what was the matter before he alarmed us. Persons on deck said we were too near land, had run a-ground, but should be off presently. The light at the harbour was distinctly seen rather behind us, to our right; as was the high ground above Port Patrick, apparently a very little distance off; while the fog concealed the promontory right a-head of us, against which we must have dashed in a few moments, had we not struck at the time we did. I went down again to tell Lilla that they said there was no danger, but at the same time assisted her to throw a few things hastily on, and then went on deck. In the meantime my husband had not come to us. I went to his cabin door again, to ask if he were there; but the inmates were in such confusion they could give me no answer. Returning up the gang-way again, I met the steward, and stood some minutes under the lamp, while he looked down his way-bill, to ascertain that I was right in my husband's number. He assured me that we should get off. On deck once again, I perceived that the vessel inclined much more, that the fore-part had sunk considerably: the noise and confusion were all there. The after-deck was comparatively free from persons; a few, indeed, were trying to lower one of the boats. We walked about, looking for my husband, who was, I have now no doubt, entangled among the crowd of persons in the fore-part, where most of the two hundred on board had run. He must have been almost the first on deck; others rushed after him in that direction: a rope—the slightest thing catching the weak leg—would throw him down, and, with the noise and confusion, which at any time would have been bewildering, it must have been impossible for him to disentangle himself. What hindered me from running down into the crowd to look for him, I know not, unless it were the persuasion that he would instinctively come to the spot where we had been together, as I had done; the expectation each moment that he would come seemed to fill my mind: it never once occurred to me that he might be in greater danger than ourselves. Only the conviction that the will of God was done can prevent the mind from agonizing longings for that night to come over again, were it a thousand times, for the merest chance of trying to save him.

The vessel was perceptibly going down in the fore-part, when the captain jumped on the skylight, and assured the passengers that if they could remain in the vessel they would be saved. This seemed probable, as the shore boats were seen in the twilight putting towards us; but, alas! we were now too rapidly sinking to allow of their near approach. The vessel lurched gradually towards the shore. We had placed ourselves on the part which, from the position of the ship, would be longest above water, with the foot resting on the ledge, where we had so happily stood in the afternoon. It enabled us to grasp a rope which came down from the mizen-mast to the edge of the vessel, and there awaited her going down, which I now saw was inevitable. We felt the power of God could save us, if such were His will, or His mercy receive us to Himself: it was not a new thing to approach Him, or to resign ourselves into His hands; it was no strange God, but our long-loved Father in Heaven, before whom we were about to appear. So we rested with calm confidence on that most blessed assurance, "Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out," and committed ourselves to our Saviour's hands.

In a few minutes, a sudden hissing excited fears of an explosion, and we sank immediately, the hot water rushing up to us as we went down. Rising again, before my head was above water, I felt something at the back of my hand: I instinctively grasped it—it was a rope. A moment after I was on the surface. I exchanged the rope for a spar, and turning round my head to ask for Lilla, found, to my inexpressible joy, she was close behind me, just as we had sunk. This cheered us both with hope of eventual safety. But where was one far dearer? I grasped with my left hand one of those fenders made of netted cords, which are used to prevent ships coming into too close contact with each other, or with the harbour; but it was hard work to keep up. We encouraged each other, and, recollecting that the human body is lighter than the same bulk of water, we tried to float; but this was no easy matter. The number of persons struggling in the water agitated it, and in the endeavour to keep it out of the ears by raising the head, the equilibrium was disturbed, and the feet sank, and with that the dread of going down again came. By the stopping of my watch at half-past one, it afterwards appeared that a quarter of an hour elapsed between the striking of the vessel and her going down, and probably nearly as long passed between our rising and our being picked up by the shore boats. It was a work of some difficulty and time, when they came up, to extricate us from the ropes: our benumbed limbs and weakened frames rendered us incapable of making any effort ourselves. "Never mind, you are come among Christian people," was the boatman's exclamation, when he had taken me into the boat, and never was truer word spoken. The heart-felt sympathy and substantial kindness we received from all classes could not have been exceeded, and can hardly be imagined. It is impossible to speak too strongly of the goodness and care of kind Mrs. Hannay, who first received us, and whose husband formed and superintended the admirable arrangements by which so many were saved. Placed in bed, and hot cordials being administered, the warmth gradually returned to our benumbed limbs, and we felt we were restored to life. Dear Lilla began to indulge hope that her papa was saved too; but I felt he was with God, he was so spiritually near; and when the ring he usually wore was brought me, the agony of that moment only confirmed what I knew too well before. Even the catastrophe, fearful as it was, could scarcely be called unexpected; I felt that what I had been looking for had come, for we had both felt we were too happy for this world. He had himself often exclaimed "how will all this end? it cannot last." It was a mournful but a blessed thing to gaze again on that beloved face, with all the glow of health upon it, and more than a placid, a bright smile—but to part from it thus! Even yet I cannot associate death in the ordinary sense with it.

The first words of comfort, when we knew the extent of our loss, were from the Rev. A. Urquhart and his sister; and precious were their sympathy and manifold kindness. The most deeply grateful feelings will ever be associated with the thought of the Rev. S. Balmer, in whose hospitable manse we remained for many days, while Mrs. Balmer nursed us as a sister. There was another bond between us, besides that of our common humanity,—that of Christianity. We felt that we were not with strangers, but with friends who shared every feeling, that we were all looking from the same point of view, and recognising the same hand. There were personal links too—fellow-sufferers came in to whom my beloved husband's works were known. On the shelves of the manse library were those of my own venerable relative, the late Dr. Ryland, of Bristol; and Lilla found that her mamma's brother-in-law, the late Rev. J. Ely, of Leeds, had been known to our host. Trifling as such things were, they brought a feeling akin to comfort. There is a gratification in mentioning the names of friends to whom so much is owing, and it would be ungrateful not to add that of Mr. and Mrs. Hunter Blair of Dunskaie, whose proffered kindnesses were more than the desirableness of remaining near the shore would allow us to accept.[E] Truly were we "an hungered, and ye gave us meat; we were thirsty, and ye gave us drink, we were strangers, and ye took us in; naked, and ye clothed us; we were sick, and ye visited us." Be the blessing of "those that were ready to perish" upon them.

For no kindness is gratitude so deeply felt as for that which aided the heart's cherished wish to have those remains, so loved and so precious, removed from beside that ever moaning sea, where they could never have been thought of, without all the horrors of that scene recurring too. To his own family grave, in the burial-ground of the Independent Chapel, Rochdale, they were borne on Saturday the 22d; followed by members of his family, and about forty gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood, who thus spontaneously expressed their sense of his loss. There now rests "all that could die" of the man of high intellect, of the loved and honoured, the loving and confiding husband.

Farewell! a brief farewell! nay, no farewell to thee—thou art not severed from us. Spirit as thou art, thou still comest to live and blend with ours in the dim twilight, and when the hum of the world is busy around us. And when we bow in prayer to the Father of Spirits, we feel that we are come not only to "Jesus the Mediator," but to "the spirits of just men made perfect," and we worship together in company. Farewell, then, only thou beloved form, whose radiant smile seemed to tell there had been no gathering of the darkness of death, only a stepping from mortal into immortal life; and farewell, even to thee, only for a season, for we know that "them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." We shall yet see thee again, and dwell with thee in eternal re-union, in a world where the very memory of thy loss shall have vanished, for "there shall be no more sea."

The foregoing brief sketch, little more than the enumeration of ordinary events and literary pursuits, would alone convey a very inadequate idea of one whose character was peculiarly his own. One of the many definitions by which it has been attempted to analyse the subtle nature of genius is "the power of interpreting nature." In the case of Mr. Roby, it took the form of art, and he laboured in her train, whether with pen or pencil, rather than in the service of science. Looking over the face of nature, he would catch her slightest hints, and transfer to his paper—not just what met the ordinary gaze, but—a picture. As if nature by her scattered rocks and wandering clouds, gave him in rude symbolic language, her thought of beauty, and as he with initiated eye, read the meaning, there presently grew under his pencil the full interpretation, a silent poem, which every passer by might more or less comprehend, and enjoy.

And were it the voice of nature that met his ear, that voice whose floating music so few perceive, it had as ready an interpreter. When in the social circle, or in the busy street, the inner sense caught the inarticulate sounds, he would note them down, and present to others the melody which had charmed himself.

And eloquently would nature speak to him of truths pertaining to humanity; felicitously were they apprehended and expressed, he lingering meanwhile till she had taught all her meaning.

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!"

said Shakespeare. The conception of a similar scene, and, no doubt, the unrecognised remembrance of this line, suggested,

"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps."

There a copyist would have stopped, but he was in close communion with nature, listened himself to her teachings, and learned more.

"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps,
"Fair image woman of thy maiden breast
"Unmoved by love. Anon some vagrant breath
"Ruffles its surface, and its pure still light
"In tremulous pulses heaves;—brighter, perchance,
"The feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!"
Duke of Mantua.

The descriptions of nature in his writings are part of this ministry of interpretation. All see, but who, beside the gifted, can either by pen or pencil

"stay
"Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape,"

permitting not

"the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day."
Wordsworth's Sonnets.

Our great Maker gives to some men general excellence of parts, so as to secure success in whatever pursuit they follow; others are more exquisitely moulded, and receive from His hand that peculiar and indestructible form of genius, which no external circumstances can affect. It was that general superiority of abilities, which would alone have secured Mr. Roby eminence in any walk of life he had chosen; but the mechanical routine of monetary transactions could not prevent the artist's eye from guiding his pencil, render the ear deaf to the latent melody, or hinder for a moment the genius stamped as creative by its Maker from peopling the old ruins of the Past with living forms of beauty or of terror. Education could no more train mere excellence of parts to this, than any process of progressive development raise the lower orders of creation into the higher.

Combined with the poetic fancy was a character of high moral tone, a disposition, generous, open-hearted, and impetuous, sensitive, and confiding; irresistibly drawn towards the supernatural, yet as prone to humour. That fine purity of feeling which marked his writings, was equally a personal quality. His sense of honour was quick, as his standard was high. Naturally he would have preferred death itself to the slightest shade of dishonour on his name. Faithful to the command implied in the inspired delineation of the upright man, it might be taken for the description of his own course,—"he that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not." Incapable himself of mean or sordid action, he never anticipated it in others; unselfish to a degree, he perhaps calculated too much on the same generosity of feeling in the world. The editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, in a notice, which appeared in October 1850, alludes to "his well-known liberality to literary men," a reference amply confirmed by other incidental testimony; but though literary acquaintances were often the topic of home conversation, he never spoke of any kindness it had been in his power to show them. It was the highest luxury he knew, thus to mitigate the perplexities or wants of others, but it was only by accident that his family would discover it. Even when he dropped money into a poor man's hand, he would hurry away as if he had done something wrong, and wanted to forget it.

Another phase of the same disposition, was the generous pleasure with which he regarded the gifts or acquirements of others. Most cordially did he recognise talent of any kind, no matter in whom, or under what form it appeared. He was as free from envious or jealous feeling as from common selfishness. This arose from a fine nature,—which embraced as kindred spirits those from whom morbid self-love might have shrunk as rivals—not from an overweening or even just sense of his own superiority: in that he was unusually deficient.

In truth his want of self-valuation, almost of appreciation of his own powers, was very noticeable. He would exercise his talents, as a bird does its power of song, for very pleasure, but without any thought of display. "I know," he would say, "that many others cannot do the things I do, but I do not feel as if I had done anything worth thinking of, it falls so far below the point I wish to reach." His delight in giving pleasure supplied this want of the Phrenologist's Self-esteem, as regarded others, but to himself, the lack of it, joined to his extremely sensitive disposition, was in fact a destitution of defensive armour; hence it was in the power of minds far inferior to his own to torture him. A similar deficiency was the absence of that worldly wisdom, which in combination with a fine and generous disposition, is so valuable to its possessors. The deprivation of it occasioned a transparent simplicity of character, which again left him too often at the mercy of coarse ungenerous natures.

That intense yearning for sympathy, which was noticed as a characteristic of his childhood, followed him through life, and seemed to increase with his years. His many resources, though capable of yielding the purest pleasure, could not fill the void. They concealed the longing from observers, but left the heart often aching. Frank and confiding himself, he looked for the same frankness in others. The slightest reserve chilled and wounded him, and threw him back on himself. "An unkind word or look," he would frequently say, "nay a chilling one, from those I respect and esteem, is misery to me." His happiness was indeed a delicate thing, for though the writer can say she never knew any one made happy with so little effort—the very wish to make him so, evinced, was enough—yet she often felt, and trembled to feel, how intensely miserable it was in the power of any one he loved, to make him.

His natural vivacity concealed another feature of his character from the general eye, which was yet discernible by those who studied him. "Spare me," said he one day to a lady, half jocosely, "I am so shy." "You shy!" she exclaimed, protesting against the possibility of such a thing. He quietly acquiesced, and let it pass. "You would not think that I was naturally shy," said he a few days after to a friend who had been present, with whom he was now engaged in a pleasant little disquisition on psychology, and who, he afterwards allowed, knew more of his real character from a few months' acquaintance than any one had done before. "Yes I should," was her unhesitating reply. "Why, how should you think so!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Your attitudes and movements betray it. I do not say as Robert Hall did of an acquaintance, that you seem begging pardon of all men for being in existence, but you do often seem begging pardon of your company for being in their presence, when they are only too happy to have your society. You would creep into a nutshell, rather than be where you thought you were not wanted."

Not an uncommon, but a pleasing trait, was that humanity to the animal creation which marked him from boyhood. Not only did he never "heedlessly" set "foot upon a worm," but he would carefully remove it from the path, lest some other foot should crush it. Cruelty of any kind called forth his strongest reprehension.

One great charm of his character, was its perfect retention of the freshness of youth. The most juvenile in the company could not but feel that he was as young in spirit as themselves. His regular and temperate habits of life no doubt contributed to this, as did his love of simple pleasures. He never sought the false excitement of artificial stimulants. His own buoyancy of spirits, and ever-varied pursuits, most of all perhaps the exhilaration of botanical "field sports," were the true stimulants which fed the flame of life, while they made it burn more brightly. Even in those years when the smile or quick repartee often only concealed, but could not remove, the secret care or the unsatisfied craving for some undefined blessing, that preyed within, the change to a new pursuit, or a fresh path for thought and energy, were the only means to which he had recourse "to keep the mind from preying on itself."

To those who knew him best it is easy to trace much of his personal character in his writings. His social disposition, and particularly this freshness of spirit, gave a tone to all he wrote. The high ideal of woman maintained in the "Traditions," has been already noticed: he was quick to perceive fragmentary indications of that ideal, in real life. True to Haydon's motto which he so often quoted, "Ex pede Hercules," one trait of disinterestedness, of self-sacrifice, of intuitive perception of the good, was sufficient, and his imagination therefrom created,

"A perfect woman, nobly plann'd."

A nice observer of the indications of character, he detected, with a quickness approaching to intuition, those little peculiarities of manner and expression which intimate the disposition and habit of thought, and often after a very brief acquaintance, he would by a few touches draw a mental portrait to the life, yet without the slightest approach to caricature, which he would have abhorred as deformity. This habit of close observation and quick perception contributed to the variety and individuality of his delineations. He was remarkably susceptible of impressions, hence he was open to influences which others escape. A very unpleasing expression of countenance would act upon him so strongly, that he would go far out of his way to avoid it. In a similar manner, certain appearances of the clouds in an electrical state of the atmosphere would from childhood impress him painfully, even at times with a sentiment almost akin to horror; and this in spite of a constitution, over which the state of the weather ordinarily had no power; the spirit seemed directly operated on through the eye.

One of his strongest natural tendencies, which had considerable influence in the creations of his fancy, was a love of the supernatural. Nothing contented him till he had traced it up to that subtle point where spiritual relations begin. "Why should such a thing affect us thus?" was the question which he delighted to ask himself. To his mind, as indeed to all thoughtful ones, the mysterious was the element into which all the phenomena of life resolved themselves. And there he took his stand, watching before the veil, if perchance some hand from within would lift its folds. The mutual relations of mind and matter, the secret sympathies of spirit, and the extent of its independence of sense, were chosen topics of thought. The enlarged views of these subjects which modern science is opening before us, at once indicating the direction of future inquiry, and retrospectively interpreting the wildest records of the past, thus resolving romance into reality, had especial charm for him. The reverse of credulous, he would subject a fact to close investigation, before he gave it credence, but at the same time a latent affinity with the supernatural, if the expression be allowed, drew him to it: hence astrology attracted him, but after close study, he gave it up for various reasons, principally that a kind of Christian instinct, which will often advance when the understanding stops short, warned him off, by a sentiment, of approaching forbidden ground.

Mr. Roby was a striking instance of how far literary pursuits may be followed without neglect of the duties of life. "Literature to a man who must have a profession" observes Sir Walter Scott, "should be the recreation not the serious business of life." Mr. Roby's success in his profession was such as to lead another banker of eminence—not prejudiced by the tie of private friendship—to term him the first accountant in Europe. Bearing in mind the pursuits of him of whom the remark was made, it proves that a successful career as an author, is not incompatible with eminence in the ordinary business of life. A strength of moral purpose, which would not allow pleasant occupation to infringe on the prior claims of duty, and which led him inflexibly to follow the course he had laid down as right, gave force to a character that else might have been deemed too brilliant for every-day wear.

One remarkable endowment that must have contributed to his success in his own walk in life, was a power he possessed of determining the amount of any sum of figures that might be laid before him. The friend an extract from whose letter was given on p. [41], thus alludes to this faculty. "If a double column, twenty figures in each row, or a cube of six, arranged as below, were placed before him, he would tell the sum as soon as his eye could read the figures.

1 2 5 4 9 1
5 3 9 8 1 9
6 9 1 2 2 9
7 8 2 7 9 2
3 7 4 7 8 4
4 6 3 6 1 3
--------------------

He arrived at the result without going through the ordinary process; he saw it at a glance. If, as was rarely the case, owing to a passing fit of dulness, or a momentary distraction of thought, he failed to see the sum at once, he was rather slow than otherwise in doing it by the ordinary mode. Mr. Roby himself told me, that Bidder, perhaps the most wonderful calculator this country ever produced, though his superior in some points, could not approach him here."

Their respective powers must have been the result of two different faculties. In "the calculating boy," it was extraordinary rapidity of calculation. In Mr. Roby it was not calculation at all, but combination. He read and combined the figures into a whole, as we should read the word comparison, for instance, without spelling it; the power of the figures in the one case, being equivalent to that of the letters in the other. Perhaps the extraordinary strength and activity of his perceptive faculties, combined with considerable talent for the science of number, may account for it: the rapidity of his perceptions was at all times marvellous. He had not trained himself to this exercise, nor was it a faculty at all improved by use. He found out accidentally one day that he possessed it, and it never varied afterwards. The writer is not aware that he practised to any extent what is termed mental arithmetic. Yet some extraordinary calculations he made with a pack of cards, by a process carried on in his mind, which, if put on paper would have covered many sheets, appears to have been of that nature. In all such matters which depended on numerical arrangement, he was quite au fait. On one occasion he saw a lady perform a trick called Sir Isaac Newton's. She declined showing how it was done, and avowed herself unacquainted with the principle on which the arrangement was founded. He went home, lay for hours awake during the night, worked all the cards in the pack over and over again mentally; before morning he had not only discovered the arrangement, but extended the principle so as to be applicable, not to twenty-seven cards only, but to any number within the fifty-two.

Punctuality was another marked feature of Mr. Roby's character. He was, to use his own phrase, "a timist." An amusing instance of this occurs in his tour. "Whilst resting and enjoying our cheer (at the Hospice Tête Noir) I surprised Urlaub the courier, by telling him I had fixed three or four months previously to cross the Tête Noir on this very day, and on this very hour, showing him a sketch of my tour as given in the introductory chapter. He said it would serve him to tell and boast about all his life, he could not have thought it possible; 'but,' continued he with great simplicity, 'I am sure they cannot believe me!'" Other instances equally diverting he would tell, till even punctuality itself lost its sober character, and became tinged with mirth, if not romance.

His love of order and arrangement was very great: it almost amounted to a passion. As soon as a botanical or conchological work came into his hands, he made himself master of its contents, and drew out a tabular view of the information it afforded, a mode of arranging knowledge of which he was particularly fond, enriching the book with what might be wanting, and with references to other standard works. To those who are commencing such pursuits, a little more detail may perhaps afford some useful hints. In Lee's botany of the Malvern Hills, are added, in a beautifully distinct small hand, to each plant named, a reference to the page of Hooker's British Flora, on which it is described, and the month of flowering; while on blank leaves inserted at the end for the purpose, a list is given of all the plants according to the time at which they flower, thus forming a flora for each month in that district, to guide his search in each day's ramble. In his copies of Sowerby's English Botany and Hooker's Flora, respectively, to each plant the page on which it is to be found in the other work, its number in the London Catalogue, and synonymes from either of these or from any other high authority are added, with a mark against each successive specimen added to his own herbarium. His mode of laying down and preserving specimens for a progressive collection of British plants, often excited the admiration of other collectors. His cabinet of shells, too, was arranged in his own perfect manner. Yet with all this order there was nothing merely mechanical in his character, nothing that hindered the free play of his imagination.

The medical profession had at one period been contemplated for him, and his studies for a short time lay in that direction. For physiological investigations he always entertained a decided partiality. Hence no doubt his ready appreciation of the general principles of hydropathy; he saw and approved the rationale of the system, before he so successfully tested its practice. He had cultivated that general knowledge of the physical sciences which enabled him to trace their mutual relations. He dwelt with peculiar delight on their points of intersection, where the mysterious connection which is ever running underground, as it were, throughout nature, rises to the surface. His industry and perseverance equalled the activity of his mind, and the versatility of his talents. Concentrating his attention on one subject for the time, when he left it he would turn with the same fixed concentration to another; and the ease with which he resumed any design or train of thought, however long it had been laid aside, prevented his losing ground that had once been gained. The quickness with which he acquired knowledge was remarkable; while the use he would make of a new discovery or of fresh light cast on an old subject, by way of illustration, by elucidating kindred truths in other sciences, or by indicating discoveries yet to be made, was most happy. Nothing seemed lost upon him: a fact became to him something more than a bare fact, an index of the ideal, or of the hidden paths to those mysterious relations of nature, which it has been observed were such favourite objects of contemplation. By no means what is termed a great reader, he usually preferred scientific works to those of general literature. He seemed not to care to follow the imaginations of others; he rather required facts as material for his own to revel in, and create from. Genius must touch the earth to gather strength for her flights.

His love of the fine arts partook of the enthusiasm of his nature. His taste was highly cultivated, and his own proficiency in several branches of art, of no mean order. He loved to dwell on the subtle and mysterious meanings of music, on its wondrous suggestive power, and its burden of associations. A few specimens of his own power of creating "concord of sweet sounds," have been preserved. He was particularly happy in adapting the music to the words or vice versâ. Sometimes he would compose an air to one of his own songs. Very few of these compositions have had the care bestowed on them necessary to prepare them for publication. One which was harmonised by Mr. Novello, and published in the Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn Book, will appear in the present volume. It is a fair specimen of the composer's power of expressing the higher feelings.

His facility of versification one may almost be tempted to regret. He would have written better, and perhaps oftener, had he gone to it as a more severe task—yet there are some lines of such exquisite music and sentiment, the inspiration of the moment, in his occasional pieces, which no gathering up of his powers could have enabled him to reach. The ballads in the traditions afford illustrations of this remark.

Mr. Roby's skill as a draughtsman was often the admiration of his friends. His landscape drawings from nature even when they are faithful as portraits are always pictures. His fondness for investigation, the "Inquisitive wants to know" of childhood aided him here. He was never satisfied until he had found out the reason why an object takes a known appearance under given circumstances, or why certain processes or touches, transfer certain effects. The writer recollects his mentioning a conversation with the late B. R. Haydon in which the point under discussion was, why when an object is presented against the sky, for example the belly of a horse standing on an eminence, the sky where it approaches the object, though in point of fact as blue there as in any other part, should not be so represented, but in a dim grey, almost neutral tint. (The reader will at once perceive, that the blue sky and black horse would be a tea-tray painting.) The discussion terminated without any satisfactory result, but Mr. Roby could not rest till he had found the true reason in the simple fact, that the eye suiting its focus to the distance of the object to which it is directed, can not distinctly see, at the same time, objects at different distances. When the focus was right for the horse, it would only perceive the sky indistinctly, or directed to the sky, the retina would not receive so distinct an image of the horse. Hence if both were represented exactly as they are in themselves, instead of as they are seen in combination, a harsh, unnatural, and therefore false picture would be the result.

His conversation on art was rich in such remarks. A lady who drew in water colours from nature in a superior style observed to the writer, that she had gained more valuable information from Mr. Roby than from any of the best masters of whom she had been in the habit of taking lessons: he had put her into possession of principles. Another friend, who was in raptures with Ruskin's "Modern Painters," described it as "like hearing Mr. Roby talk." And here again, in art as in science, he delighted to seek out those general principles, which, common to all, constitute the oneness of Art, and to trace their relation to the human mind.

To his ardent admiration of nature reference has already been made. That term but partially conveys an idea of his quick and vivid perception of beauty under whatever form it appeared, and of the intense pleasure, one might almost say happiness, of which he was susceptible from it. His spirit seemed to feed upon it as Schiller's Pegasus on the breath of flowers. He would stand entranced before a beautiful object or hang over it as if by some spell he could draw its beauty into his own soul. It seemed as though for pleasure or suffering his mind was in close contact with the spirit of outward things. Nor was this high gratification, a thing of rare occurrence. One of Hogarth's lines of Beauty, so abundantly scattered through his world who has eyes to see them, sufficed. He possessed too in a high degree the power of imparting to others the pleasure he thus enjoyed. His enthusiasm caught by sympathy communicated in part to his companions the vividness of his own impressions. A friend, herself most highly gifted, in writing of him says, "What true pleasure I feel in recalling the beauties and excellencies of his character, in tracing through all his gifts, the upward tendency of his mind which ever looked

'From Nature up to Nature's God,'

which sought His glory in all the pursuits of science—not earthly but heavenly pursuits to him—a mind to which was not denied the power to gaze along any one of those shining paths, which unite our mortal with our immortal nature, to which music, and poetry, and art and science opened their divinest treasures, fitting his nature for the immortal joys they whisper of here!"

It has been occasionally regretted that his powers were directed to so many objects instead of being concentrated, so as to secure higher excellence in one department. And truly were this short life all man's existence, the end of his progress, and "earthly immortality" the only "life beyond this," then it might be to be deplored, if aught would be worth deploring. But regret vanishes when we consider that in this case there were only so many more starting points, for the soul in her higher state of existence, already made out in this life.

Talents so versatile, it may be believed rendered their possessor the ornament of general society. They were at the same time combined with exterior advantages, graceful movement resulting from a well-proportioned and finely-moulded form, elegant manner, so much vivacity, and withal so much gentleness—the graceful courtesies of life well became him. His conversational powers were seldom equalled. He had always the right word at command whatever might be the topic, while the ever-varying tones of his musical voice lent additional force to every sentiment whether mirthful or pathetic. Information, anecdote, humour were by turns elicited. It was easy, as it was pleasant, to converse with him; he never misapprehended; he seemed to know what others were going to say, their ideas were his, and the prompt rejoinder made, by a kind of social electricity. Conversation never flagged when he was present; a sullen silence was his abhorrence; equally so, a monotonous abuse of the weather, roads, &c. His never-failing humour, and love of pleasantry or kind-hearted banter, supplied the place of Rousseau's expedient of weaving lace-strings, when in company where it was difficult, if not impossible to maintain conversation that would interest the whole party. If occasionally his repartees gave offence, no one was more ready to apologise or to atone to any feeling that had been wounded. In truth, nothing was farther from his intention than giving pain, but his love of humour once excited, he did not pause to look from another's point of view. It was as impossible for him to refrain from enjoying a joke if it told against himself, as if it bore on another—in fact, if it were really a good one, the being pointed against himself seemed rather to enhance the piquancy. So conscious was he of the absence of any ill-natured feeling, that it was difficult for him to realize how any one could be hurt by those sallies which, coming from another, he would perfectly understand. A lady who was often the subject of his sportive railleries, observed, that no one who saw the kind expression of his eye could feel wounded. It was after a time of close mental application that his sportive qualities came out the most strongly; it seemed to be a necessary relief, and the rebound involved mirthfulness in many of its innocent forms. Practical jokes he never allowed either in himself or others; nor did his humour ever degenerate into mimicry, or amusement at the expense of the absent; delicacy of feeling forbad that. A sharp contest of wits such as he designated "cut and come again" was his great delight. D'Israeli the elder remarks, "One peculiar trait in the conversation of men of genius which has often injured them, when the listeners were not intimately acquainted with the man, are certain sports of a vacant mind, a sudden impulse to throw out opinions and take views of things in some humour of the moment." Something akin to this Mr. Roby occasionally indulged in, if he perceived that any one had formed a false idea of his character, which was not unfrequently the case, he would find a passing diversion in helping on the mistake. How this comported with that yearning for sympathy, which was one of the master passions of his nature, it is not difficult to explain. Finding out by intuition where he was not understood, he sought in the amusement of watching the effect of the character thus thrust upon him, on those who had given it, a refuge from the pain which the discovery of the utter absence of sympathy could not but inflict. Afford him but a ray of this coveted sympathy, and you made his happiness, and your own by reflection. Intercourse with the world had taught him how rarely the finer feelings or higher sentiments are responded to, and a shrinking from their exposure in his own case led him to conceal them under the light robe of pleasantry. Hence he was sometimes suspected of want of earnestness by those who, as D'Israeli remarks, "were not intimately acquainted with the man."

His fund of general information contributed to the charm of his conversational powers, for with him knowledge was as ready to hand as it was various. It seemed to spring spontaneously at the sight of any thing with which it could be associated. Memory while she held her treasures with a firm hand, generously shared them with the companion of the walk or the acquaintance of the social hour. At the same time there was no assumption, no affectation of superiority in his manner: it was perfectly natural and simple.

Possessing great musical talent, a fine ear, and the power of modulating his voice so as to blend with others, and the still rarer gift of composing a part extempore to any melody, his assistance was sought as a valuable acquisition in social music. Before his illness his whistle was singularly rich, and he frequently used it as an accompaniment. The writer never heard it; but a gentleman referring to an evening spent in his society many years since, thus describes it, "I never heard human whistle so clear, so distinct, and brilliant: it was like a flute."[F]

Perhaps what he was in general society may be best shown by the impression he made on acquaintances of various tastes and habits whom from time to time he casually met. Among the many tributes of respect to his memory and to "his sterling qualities both of heart and mind," which the writer has received, one or two may be selected bearing on the salient points of his character. A recent friend, who with his lady were the last guests who were staying with him before he left Malvern for Scotland, writes, "I cannot let this opportunity pass without offering my humble tribute of respect to your late husband's memory. My acquaintance with Mr. Roby was, as you are aware, of brief duration, but I can most unaffectedly, and with sincere gratitude say, that during that period, I learned much of him—more than I ever learned in my life from any single person. It was impossible to be with him without catching something of his earnestness and enthusiasm. Would he had been spared! His death was a severe loss to me. I had hoped to enjoy his society during the coming summer, to mature in his company those tastes which, if he did not infuse into me, he certainly roused from their dormancy. But this was not to be! Like all who ever came into contact with him, I was struck, on my introduction to Mr. Roby, by the variety of his acquirements, then by their elegant intellectual character. His energy in the acquisition of knowledge had amassed a great store of material for intellectual enjoyment—his wonderful "order" had arranged it in the happiest and most available manner. I think I never in my life saw a man of greater mental activity. He had no lounging moments. And yet I saw but the relaxation of his mind."

One who knew him intimately the last two years of his life remarks, "Few persons I should imagine could have been in Mr. Roby's society without feeling a peculiar charm, a gladdening influence, which made life appear bright and genial. Intercourse with him, invariably gave me a sense of power: this made me from the first recognise him as a man of genius. A magician in the regions of the ideal himself, he seemed to inspire his listener with the same mastery over its elements. Whatever might be the topic under notice, it stood out with new beauty as he handled it. His conversation, enriched from a thousand sources, sparkled like the many facets of the well-cut diamond."

A very old friend who ranks among the first dramatists of the day in speaking of intercourse in years long since departed, characterised him as "a man of rich imagination, and the warmest and soundest heart." Adding in confirmation of the latter trait, "I was a perfect stranger when he received me as a brother, and took on himself the entire management of a course of lectures which I delivered in Rochdale several years ago, and which proved to be very remunerative chiefly through his cordially-exerted influence."

Another in writing of him, after dwelling with affectionate admiration on other traits of character, notices "his great good nature and kindness of heart, particularly the good-humoured manner in which he bore the expression of opinions different from his own, which by many would not have been taken so patiently. The extreme versatility of his talents placed at his command, acquirements the most varied, such as few persons attain to, and his kind and agreeable manner of imparting the knowledge he possessed was equally remarkable. His talent and exquisite humour in relating one of his stories or an old tradition, I can scarcely imagined to have been equalled."

Several friends have remarked that during their last interview with him, the conversation turned to the highest subjects, in some cases terminating by a short striking remark on his part, too valuable to be forgotten. A slight instance of this occurred in his last conversation with the friend just quoted. It happened to be on a subject often discussed before,—art in connection with religion as exemplified in the fine old ecclesiastical structures of our country. No one possessed a deeper sense of their beauty than himself, but his mind at the same time comprehended the possibility of losing sight of the spiritual in admiration of the material, and at the close of the conversation, his last words were, "Well good bye, remember we must not worship wood and stone." The aptness of the remark, the tone in which it was uttered, fixed it in the memory of the listener, and it is now treasured as a parting warning. There is a sacred pleasure in dwelling on conversations like these, involving high moral truths, elements of the intercourse yet to be renewed.

It was always in a circle narrower than that of general society, that he was seen to most advantage. When he felt he was surrounded only by those of congenial tastes he came out truly himself. His conversation then flowed without any restraint, he blended the ideal with the real in a way that showed a spirit gifted

"To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread."

A distinguished essayist of the present century compares himself to those toys which we sometimes see formed of box within box. His outer character he tells us was visible to all; to friends in proportion to their intimacy he threw off case after case; the sight of the innermost was reserved for himself, or for only one other. So here too was a narrower circle within that of closest friendship, where one more covering cast aside, his character displayed itself without any reserve. What he might have been to the valet "who looked at him with valet eyes," the writer knows not, but by one to whom that character was bared as to none besides, so far from seeming any less from the intimate acquaintance of daily life, its true nobleness was only then fully recognised. It is not every character that bears the near scrutiny afforded by insight through the little things of life. Fewer still grow "right worshipful" under such inspection. He did both. His feelings repressed, as we have seen in childhood, he had not been in the habit of expressing them freely to the objects of his affection. The writer learned far more of the strength of his love for his children, from remarks he made when alone with her, and from the regard he paid to the effect which any step he took might have on their welfare, than from any ordinary demonstrations to them. The anxiety he evinced during the first holidays his boys spent with her, that she should understand them, and the pains he took to draw out the most interesting points of their characters, told more forcibly than words, his concern for their happiness. Though he rarely joined in their amusements himself, yet the quiet delight with which he would stand and watch when she happened to do anything of the kind showed how dear even their pleasures were to him.

It has been a common reproach against literary men, that they are undesirable companions in private life, prone to betray unworthy jealousy of the talents of those around them; though brilliant in society, fretful or unsocial at home. Here was one more added to the many examples of the contrary. Neither mirth nor talents, courtesy nor generous feeling, nor any thing that adorns or makes life happy, was reserved like holiday attire for going abroad. One who though admitting he could not brook defeat at his favourite chess, from any other lady, would yet say he should have lost the game to his wife with pleasure, because he should feel her triumph his own, could not have been an undesirable home companion.

It is by trifles such as these, that what the gifted are in private life is seen. That it may not invariably be thus is admitted, but the solution is easy. Fireside happiness depends not on the presence or absence of talent, but on the harmony of natural disposition, character, and taste. Genius neither commands this, nor can supply its deficiency. It only renders its possessor more keenly alive to the want of congeniality, and those around perchance more wretched from the conscious lack of power to make its happiness. The man of genius may not only make home the most blessed spot on earth, but with the blessing of God give a brilliancy and an intensity to domestic happiness, which none besides can; peopling the wastes of every day life, with bright thoughts that never die, till little is left of mortal existence, that is not to be continued in the higher life to come.

But there were yet higher endowments—talents are but as the beautiful lamp, spiritual life the light they enshrine; and when that light glows with an intensity, that throws out the fair form, and exquisitely-moulded figures, till the very lamp becomes brilliant, a light-giving thing, then indeed is it a vessel "fit for the Master's use," to the glory of His name whose workmanship the lamp is, but whose breath the light within. And that to all the rich gifts already described, was added that which is pre-eminently the gift of god, even "Eternal Life through Christ Jesus our Lord," is the point of deepest interest. Taught as we have seen by the discipline of suffering, his were the convictions of experience, not those of the understanding merely; he felt throughout his whole nature, his utter powerlessness to erect himself into a consciously virtuous being, and he felt as strongly that in the salvation of Christ alone was that which at once bringing pardon and imparting holiness, meets all the deep-seated wants of our nature, and raises us to the dignity of "sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty." With a heart thrilling to its very centre with a sense of unutterable need, he clung to the promises of the Gospel. And as time advanced and the hidden life grew stronger, and daily intercourse united the spirit more closely to God as its Father, through faith in Christ Jesus, his character assumed more and more of the likeness of that blessed state which it has now entered. Deep humility and self-distrust habitually marked his religion. In a letter dated April 1849, after detailing a circumstance which occurred during a short stay at Clifton, very gratifying to him as an author, he adds "I may say all this to you because you understand me.... But I feel it is not safe to indulge in it. A momentary glance at one's position—and then back again into the only safe place,—low at the Master's feet in love and humiliation, 'What hast thou, that thou hast not received?'" "I am so afraid of myself" was an expression he often used in the most intimate conversation. He felt it was only by the daily impartation of a strength greater than his own, that spiritual life was sustained. All those sentiments in the inspired writings, which ordinarily to the men of the world, are either mysteries or meaningless phrases, now comprehended in the fulness of their truth, had become the utterances of his own soul. "The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me." He went to the scriptures for his code of morality, as well as for the promise of the life to come. Never under any circumstances did he shrink from performing what he considered to be Christian duty, or from avowing what he believed to be religious truth. The tone of Cowper's hymns harmonised more with the prevailing cast of his mind than that of any other sacred lyrics. Those of them which are to be found in Lady Huntingdon's collection, were associated with his earliest recollections, and when his spirit was all unconsciously preparing itself for a speedy and unlooked-for summons into the immediate presence of God, the strains of the poet, who so emphatically learned "in suffering" what he taught "in song," cheered and animated one kindred in spirit, as in faith. There is something pleasant in the thought that the strains which his mother might have sung by his cradle, were the latest given forth by his own rich voice.

While lowliness of mind before God, and a constant desire to serve his fellow-men, were perhaps the most conspicuous features of his religious character, the over-flowings of a grateful spirit must not be overlooked. Thanksgiving formed an essential part of his religion; neither the simple pleasures nor the richer blessings of life were lost upon him. Day by day he seemed as though he would never be thankful enough. His recognition of the hand of God in all he enjoyed was very vivid.

How far back the religious element of his character may be traced, it is impossible to say. The human mind is susceptible of the fear of God, and doubtless the actions may be modified thereby, long before any distinct consecration to his service, or, which must ordinarily precede it, that true self-knowledge which makes the need of a Saviour felt. That best of blessings the example of a Christian life in his parents, was around his earliest days, so that his first ideas of right and wrong must have taken a Christian tone. And that as he rose into life, the claims of a Creator and Saviour on his love and service occupied his attention, the writer is aware. Never indeed will be forgotten the intensity of feeling with which, within the last twelvemonths of his life he would sometimes refer to one among his youthful associates, who at that early period encouraged him in the practice of spiritual duties. He knew what a life passed amid the stir of the world was, how the hot noon dries up the current of early feeling, and the thorns of care choke the hidden life; and vivid anxiety for his friend's spiritual state, mingled with the grateful remembrance of forty years ago. A sentiment which now burst forth fresher than ever, because he knew as he had never done before, from what the salvation of God is a deliverance.

His sympathy for others in a religious point of view was very strong; the deep pity, amounting to personal grief, which he has expressed in intimate conversation, when speaking of any whose life or avowed principles, testified they were "without hope, and without God in the world," showed that his religion drew him the nearer to all his race. Strongly as principle and feeling alike led him to seek to promote in any way in his power the highest good of his fellow-creatures, the remembrance of his deep spiritual suffering caused him to take a deeper interest in those whose minds were in any degree agonised and bewildered as his had been. He would have considered no amount of mental effort or physical fatigue too great to encounter, could he thereby have "ministered to a mind diseased." In 1848 when visiting friends in the south of England, he was told of a poor old woman whose distress of mind had baffled every attempt to relieve it. He went to her cottage, sat down and listened to her complaints, anticipating them in great measure from his own vividly-remembered distress. She was cheered by finding another, who could tell beforehand what she was going to say; and when he reached down the Bible, and began reading his own favourite passages, "When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them, I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys" &c., and entering into her feelings, showed her that the glorious promises of God were made to the wretched and self-condemning, light seemed to burst upon her mind, and her thankfulness and delight knew no bounds; and second only to hers, were his own.—The most brilliant success in society had never afforded a pleasure like this. He seldom referred to his own past suffering, when he did so it was in a brief but touching manner: thus in a letter dated March 1849 he writes, "Pray give my very best remembrance to Mrs. —— and tell her that when I come to —— I intend sitting once more in her arm chair, now with what different feelings. I had not then found 'a hiding place from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' Now however I hope I have found Christ as 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'"

The true lowliness of spirit and willingness to be set aside, with which he commenced any undertaking, evinced a chastened spirit, which showed that he had not suffered in vain. "How thankful," wrote he to a friend, "we ought to be that we are permitted even to attempt any thing for Him who has given us all, and though apparently we fail, yet, as you say, we are secure from disappointment; and, depend on it, some good will arise probably to ourselves, if not to others, from our least efforts; at any rate, if they lead us to more humility and dependence on Him, one great end will have been answered." And two months later, writing to the same friend, he observed:—"It does seem part of the discipline of life that we should aim at duty—just embark in what seems the very path we ought to pursue for our own and other's good, and then plainly be sent back to learn one very important lesson we are too apt to forget,—viz. that the great Master can do his work without us."[G]

In a letter dated February 22nd, 1850, after speaking of the happiness he had enjoyed of late in communion with God, and expressing his desire to serve Him, especially by comforting "the weary," he adds, "but they 'do His will who only stand and wait;' I am watching the course of events, and when He has work for me to do, I shall be appointed to it. In the meantime I am working with my pen what may be useful at one time or another."

The repose which belongs to maturity of character, indicated by the last extract, was not unnoticed at the time. It was one of those traits then marked, but now fully understood. Many things which the writer took for philosophic superiority to trifles, and admired as such at the time, she now recognises as Christian elevation of character. There was about him an air—not exactly of indifference to the world or of separation from it, for he entered with zest into the social pleasures and all the higher pursuits of life—but of something like a consciousness of still nobler relations than any which connected his spirit with earth, an abiding recognition of a world to which he more properly belonged and still better than this which he so much enjoyed; and he seemed to stand with one foot uplifted ready to enter on that not distant world. It was a fulfilling of the divine precept, "Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning, and ye yourselves like unto men waiting for their Lord."

An intimate friend when referring to daily intercourse with him, enjoyed for some time during the last autumn of his life, writes: "The advance in all things connected with the spiritual good of himself, or of others, was very striking—there was a dignity of deportment, a seriousness when treating of divine things, and an anxious desire for the religious improvement of all whom he could influence, that, superadded to his natural cheerfulness and lively wit, made him a most delightful companion. Still this increase of grace was chiefly preparing him for the approaching removal: he was taken because he was ready. Never did a bed of languishing sickness more evidently fit the sufferer for 'going home' than did his beautiful frame of mind during the happy months that preceded his sudden removal." Not better chosen could one expression of the above have been, had the writer of the note recollected Mr. Roby's crest—a sheaf of corn (garb), and motto "I am ready." Rapid had the ripening been—those years of suffering had done their work and the brief, but bright, sunshine that followed, made the sheaf ready for the garner.[H]

The mind lingers on this aspect of his character. Most precious to dwell upon now is—not the memory of his rich talents—not the recollection of his warm and generous affection, which, like the sunset glow, invests all connected with him, with a brightness that seems as if it would never grow dim, but—the thought that he was, in the true, not merely in the conventional, sense of the word, a Christian. This alone can connect the beloved ones who are "gone home" with all that is real in comfort.—The workings of the sorrowful heart are no longer vague guesses and fruitless longings, but sure and living hopes founded on "the true sayings of God." And when the voice whose music stirred the very depths of the soul, as none other had power to do, can be no longer heard, the ear of the spirit is quickened for voiceless intercourse. And since those sayings assure us that those whom we call the dead still live, in all the integrity of their spiritual being, we feel that they can scarcely be said to be gone—that the one in spirit are one for eternity—that their love for, and interest in us are not shaken—and if neither ear nor eye can catch sound or glimpse of what was dearer than life, still we are not without tokens of their presence. The intercourse of spirit with spirit is not destroyed because one veil of flesh is dropped; rather it is so much the nearer. The flow of reciprocated affection, the joy as truly shared, and sorrow as tenderly lightened with whispered assurances of sympathy, all tell of an union over which death hath no power. Henceforward no abiding sense of loneliness, can weigh down the heart made strong in an affection which,

"Doth draw the very soul into itself,"

and brings it into companionship with "the spirits of just men made perfect" in the presence of their Father and our Father. All that remains for earth is "the Patience of Hope." Death to the survivor as well as to his victim has "lost his sting." Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."[I]

Thus faintly and inadequately have been pourtrayed the life and character of one whom his Maker had endowed with genius, and sent forth for life's brief day. His appointed task was to go to his fellow men, when the fever of earth's turmoil is on them, and, by transporting them into other scenes, to charm away their cares and weariness for a while; bringing one character after another, and adventures in quick succession, before the reader, till he rises refreshed, and with new spirit goes forth again to the conflict of life; having found too, during his brief sojourn in that ideal region, many a hint of valuable information, many a true moral principle.

And if increasing light from that world towards which he was so rapidly advancing showed him how more distinctly to place before his fellow men the characteristic truths of Christianity as the foundation of all that is good and enduring, and to consecrate his talents to the highest interests of mankind, and then, with all his plans and purposes ripening, God called him away, it was only to enter on worthier labours in that world, where "His servants serve Him day and night." Strange as such a cutting short of a life so lately renewed in physical vigour, and devoted to the high service of God appears, the very suddenness was in keeping with the whole tenor of an existence which knew no idle moments—as if not an hour of such a spirit was to be wasted—to-day working here in the full vigour of his mortal life, to-morrow on the other side of death, an immortal spirit serving in its appointed rank before the throne of God.

Sense would fain follow, and, amid the shadowy forms of that world, catch a sight of one so dear: but the eye is strained in vain. Yet Faith can hear her Father's voice: "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord," and she is content: for "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

MUSIC.

AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO

[[Listen]]

Father, hear a suppliant's cry;
Hear, oh hear, for Thou art nigh.
Though the clouds of sorrow rise
Darkly o'er these troubled skies;
Speak the word, "Let there be light!"
Bid the morning chase the night.
Father, hear a suppliant's prayer;
Darkness flies when Thou art there!

SHEW PITY, LORD

[[Listen]]

The Melody by J. Roby; the Harmonies varied by V. Novello.

[Extracted, by permission, from the Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn-Book. Dufour, Piccadilly.]

Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;
Let a repenting rebel live.
Are not thy mercies large and free?
May not a sinner trust in Thee?

My lips with shame my sins confess.
Against thy law, against thy grace;
Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,
I am condemned, but Thou art clear.

Yet save a humbling sinner, Lord,
Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,
Would light on some sweet promise there,
Some sure support against despair.